


Blood Rights

by uselessenglishmajor



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Creature Draco Malfoy, F/M, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Marriage of Convenience, Ministry of Magic (Harry Potter), Tropes, Virgin Hermione Granger
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-03-10
Packaged: 2019-11-05 00:37:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17908730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uselessenglishmajor/pseuds/uselessenglishmajor
Summary: “There has not been a Malfoy who has been unwed past the age of twenty-five for more than sixteen generations.”Hermione Granger—renowned lawyer in the defense of magical creatures, scourge of the Ministry, and unrepentant virgin—is about to take on the case of a lifetime.





	1. Courtship

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This fic is absolute nonsense and pure trope indulgence and I apologize. Hopefully it will all be over in three chapters. Please forgive me. <3

“Have you read the report?”

Hermione rolls her eyes; she bites her tongue. She has read it cover to cover six times, along with the rest of the file. She does not need to be asked if she has read something, but it’s a nervous point, the stress of incredulity in Harry as he leads her to the Ministry holding cells.

They stop at the heavily guarded entrance located in the depths of the building.

“So you understand what this is?” Harry says.

Hermione hands over her wand, stands with arms held wide as the auror on duty casts a detection spell for hidden weapons. “Who; who this is—” she begins.

She passes the security check, but Harry grabs her by the elbow. “You haven’t seen them yet.”

He keeps hold of her as he guides her through. His grip is too strong, but she doesn’t bother to tell him that. She walks with her shoulders back and her eyes fixed forward. Prisoners bang on the doors. There are yells and cries and muted thuds. The dissipation of contained magic, trapped by the strongest wards in existence.

A familiar figure waits at the end of a long hallway. Ron’s lanky frame is hunched but straightens up when he sees them.

“She came?” he says to Harry, disappointment clear.

“I came,” she says and snatches her arm free. She looks between the two men. “Well?”

Harry and Ron commence a heated non-verbal exchange as if she’s not there.

“I’d like to see my client.”

“‘Mione—”

“Auror Weasley, that is the law.” She should know; she was the one who wrote it. The right to legal representation for all magical creatures. She resigned from the Ministry as soon as the act was passed, allowing her to be the one to do the representing.

“You shouldn’t go in there alone,” Ron says.

“I have a duty of confidentiality that I intend to respect. Now get out of my way.”

More glances are shared until Ron and Harry turn to the great door behind them. Ron waves his wand over a panel and several locks can be heard retracting. The door swings open, and more aurors await.

“Another security check?” she says.

“This is the most heavily protected unit we have,” Harry explains. “The guards will take you through.”

Hermione nods and begins to move but Ron stops her this time. “Be careful, ‘Mione. We’ll be waiting out here.”

The door shuts with a loud echo behind her. Six aurors scan her and remove her outer robes and shoes, take her bag and wand. She is not given them back this time. One of them, a tall witch with short black hair and a cold face, fixes a band about her wrist.

“Break this and we’ll come running. It also acts as a short distance portkey.”

Hermione nods. She didn’t know what she was expecting. Certainly not this. But she maintains an air of having seen it all before.

Another guard leads her to the final door. “He’s not very talkative,” he says.

She snorts. Who would be? Bolts are magically opened and the final door, a twelve-inch thick panel of reinforced iron pulls back to reveal darkness. Hermione enters. She is immersed by the shadows now as the door silently closes, the lack of sound unnerving her more than the lack of sight. She blinks and listens. A spotlight appears overhead, but she cannot see into the furthest corners of the room. She has no grasp of its dimensions, of where another living creature might be.

“My name is Hermione Granger,” she says, “and I’m your ministry-appointed counsel for defense of magical creatures.”

There is no reply. Nothing. Not even the echo of her own voice, barely the whisper of her breathing. She remains in stasis for several uncertain, immeasurable moments until—

“Granger.”

The voice is distorted, low and grating, like layers upon layers of speakers caught in the range of a faulty microphone. It is like no voice she has ever heard.

“I can’t see you. Can I see you?” she says.

“You don’t want to see me.”

“I’ll be the judge—”

“I thought you were my lawyer.”

Was that a joke? Surely they cannot be so scary.

“I am if you’ll let me help you. But I need to see—”

A scratching noise begins, quiet at first then growing; like nails on slate, like a finger swirling along the edge of a wine glass, like an entire murder of crows screaming.

Stop, she does not say. She wants to cover her ears, twist them, and squeeze her eyes shut before the monster can reach her. Be brave, you stupid Gryffindor!

What difference does it make?

The first thing she sees are black taloned toes. They enter the edge of her circle of light, huge and scraping on the cold stone. The feet are barely human, more like a werewolf’s, but there is no fur, only washed out gray skin. It has the slight sheen of scales, too small to be individually discernible. The feet lead up to the length of large, thickly muscled legs. The torn remains of trousers stretch over the thighs. Two feet, two legs and a wide torso, heavy with muscle too. The creature must stand over seven feet tall for she cannot see its head. She is distracted by scars, which criss-cross in silver-white over the chest, jagged lines bisecting from left shoulder to right hip. An arm swings into view with claws almost as long as those on the feet. The gigantic hand is narrow-fingered, held loose. It raises palm up towards her, and Hermione steps back.

“See?” the voice says.

“I… I can’t see all of you.”

The terrible screeching noise ceases, and she understands. Wings, great black leathered things, stay folded but still stretch high into the darkness. Talons at the base spark across the floor. A head leans down from the shadows. Horned and with protruding fangs on the lower jaw and a shock of white-blond hair and eyes with blood-red sclera. But the irises are human somehow, a rare blue-gray. Even with the twisted lips and protruding teeth, his smirk is just the same.

“How about now?”

“Malfoy,” she says.

“What was it that gave me away?”

* * *

The first sign of trouble had been a flare of unclassifiable magic deep in the heart of Wiltshire. Its surge had shattered the Manor’s ancient wards. It had also alerted the auror department, given the current residents’ enduring probationary status.

An inconsolable house-elf had met the response team at the mangled gates. They entered to find all the windows broken and dangerous cracks running along the floors and walls and ceilings. Portraits hung askew and cried out in mourning. Some hissed threats at the heavily armed interlopers. A young Lucius Malfoy blinked mutely, all the paint from the mouth below slowly dripping from the frame.

The whole building shuddered and groaned in distress. Careful progress was made until the source of the disturbance could be discovered amongst the remnants of a drawing room located on the first floor.

In the center of the room stood Narcissa Malfoy, covered in dust and bearing several cuts, yet somehow as poised and regal as ever. At her feet lay the unconscious body of Astoria Greengrass. And hovering above them both was a monster, its twelve-meter wingspan embedded through plaster and brick.

* * *

“Care to explain?” Hermione begins. “I’ve read the official version, but I’d like to hear it in your own words.”

“From the hideous deformed hell-beast’s mouth so to speak?” The hell-beast crouches down. “Did you ask for this case?” This close, his voice blows back the hair from her face; his breath is hot but not unpleasant. His blood-soaked eyes appear amused.

“I represent all magical creatures, even those not yet known.”

“I was hoping you could tell me.”

“I’ll try to find out. Are you scared?”

Malfoy folds himself into a sitting position, crossing his legs and hunching over his wings. The force of his weight makes the ground tremble. “Aren’t you?”

“You haven’t hurt me yet.” Hermione sits too. “I don’t think you will. At least not with physical violence. Your preferred weapon was always words.”

“Words like mudblood?”

“Yes.”

“Well, what about my blood? It must be a dirty, contaminated thing. Have at me, Granger. Now you can get your revenge.”

“You don’t seem to care that you’re here.”

“Where I am doesn’t matter. My life is over. I assume my mother is maintaining her vow of silence.”

“What do you remember?”

“Having tea with Astoria. I’d laced mine with firewhisky. We were supposed to be getting to know one another before our engagement. I was learning we had nothing in common so I kissed her, thought we should try for physical compatibility at least. She responded. Things progressed. Then Mother came in.”

“And?”

“That’s it. Next thing I know, I’m trapped against the ceiling with fifteen aurors all firing hexes at me.”

“Were you hurt?”

“They didn’t do anything. I agreed to come here if they would keep my mother out of it. Shockingly, the Ministry refused to keep its word.”

“I’m sorry about that.”

“How’s Astoria?”

“Physically well, but she has no recollection of anything, not even arriving for tea.”

“Obliviated then?”

“Most likely.”

“Well, it wasn’t me.”

He stares at Hermione with a shared understanding, and she decides to take her chance. “Can I speak with your mother?”

“You can try.”

“I’m going to get you out of here and make things right. I think you’ve been cursed.”

“Quite the brilliant deduction.”

“Cooperation would be to your benefit. Sarcasm is not.”

“At least give me my sarcasm, you sadistic witch.” Despite the disturbing timbre to his voice, there is no detectable venom. “It’s all I’ve got left.”

She smiles. “If you really think it helps.”

She moves to stand and the gigantic form of Malfoy follows. She offers him her hand, and he looks at it.

“You’re still you,” she says.

“But we never shook hands.”

“Perhaps you’re evolving.”

He snorts and it reverberates like a sonic boom. One large hand curves around her own, swallows it inside the palm. The flesh is cool and smooth as snakeskin. She feels the magic pulse from inside, a thousand voices joined in chorus, calling out for another. It pulls on her. She blinks, and the lights flicker off.

“Malfoy?”

Behind her the door flies open. Malfoy growls. “I can’t let go.” His wings are around her as the aurors rush in. Spells are cast and colors flash through flesh and bone. She can just see his eyes, the same silver-gray irises but the surrounding red is leaking out and fading into white.

“I…”

“Don’t leave me,” he begs.

She doesn’t want to, cannot if she tried. Malfoy’s grip tightens but the flesh feels different, the dimensions altered. His voice is changing too, the patrician tone of Hogwarts replacing the monstrous drone. His wings are sinking, growing smaller. Hermione is pulled to the ground.

“Stand down!” a voice yells and the light returns. She lifts her head and looks down. A warm body lies beneath her, the scarred pale skin of a human man’s chest. Malfoy’s eyes are closed, his face returned to the sculpted beauty she remembers. Both angel and demon. He still holds her hand.

“Move back, Miss Granger.”

His magic is tickling at her fingertips, not the thousand desperate voices but a warm, welcoming hum. It calls to her; her magic sings for it.

I won’t let go, she thinks, but the choice is made for her. Several hands are gripping her arms and she is pulled from him, struggling and screaming as another grasps her wrist.

The band is snapped. She feels a tug on her navel and stumbles into a cold, bright corridor.

“‘Mione?!”

“Don’t let them hurt him,” she hears herself mumble and her body collapses into Ron’s waiting arms.

* * *

It is several hours later before she is released from St. Mungo’s. There is no detectable damage to her magic and thus no reason to keep her in. Ron waits by her bedside, but he won’t tell her anything. She ignores his pleas as he follows her to the floo and back to the Ministry, apparating twice and disillusioning herself until she is able to lose him.

She takes the elevator sideways and up and alone, deciding to try her luck with Harry.

The auror department is in chaos. Dozens of aurors are gathered, along with other Ministry officials, including her replacement in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures and a close aide to the Minister of Magic. They all pause in the midst of whatever they are doing when she enters, staring as she crosses the floor and knocks on the door to Harry’s office.

“What is it?”

Auror Potter is normally professional and polite. His terseness is unexpected. She steps inside and prepares to scold him for a lack of manners but is prevented by a sudden, swift hug.

“Are you okay?” he says.

“Harry, I’m fine. What happened to Malfoy?”

He guides her into a chair and leans on the edge of his desk. “What happened to Malfoy?” he echoes. His arms are crossed and his face twisted in a frown. “Why don’t you tell me?”

“He shook my hand and returned to his human form. Then I was removed against my will and passed out from the shock of the portkey.”

“Really? That’s all?”

“What did you do to him?”

“Nothing! Our spells couldn’t touch him. He destroyed all the wards of our most secure unit. As soon as you were gone, he turned into a monster again. Everyone got out before he was fully awake and we reinforced everything as best we could. He’s still in there now refusing to talk and pacing around and making the entire Ministry nervous. We’ve never seen any magic like this.”

“He didn’t hurt me.”

“But he did something, didn’t he?”

“It wasn’t his fault!”

“Why are you so defensive of him? I know he did something to you. Don’t give me that bullshit about the portkey.”

“Whatever it is, the nature of this curse, when he touched me I think my magic soothed him somehow. There was this desperate hungry rush, like he was looking for something, like I could save him.”

“Don’t talk like that.”

“Like what?”

“Do you know what it sounds like?”

She does but she won’t be the one to say it. “I need to speak to Narcissa. Where is she?”

“She won’t speak to anyone. We’re waiting on the Wizengamot to allow forced use of veritaserum.”

“What?!” Hermione stands. “That’s an act of torture, Harry. You can’t! Does she even have legal representation?”

“No—”

“I want to see her. As her lawyer.”

“You can’t represent them both!”

“I can and I will. All I need is their permission. Plus Malfoy doesn’t count since he’s a magical creature. All the archaic Ministry laws no longer apply to him.”

At that moment, Ron barges in. “I tried to stop her!”

“Too late,” Harry says, fingers rubbing at his eyes beneath his glasses. “Meet the Malfoys’ new consigliere.”

* * *

Narcissa Malfoy sits behind a table inside an interrogation room. She is dressed in simple beige robes, standard issue for Ministry prisoners but an unpleasing clash to her complexion and hair, the latter somewhat lank and ragged given the lack of her usual grooming. Still, she wears them all with unnerving grace. Her back is straight, her head held high. Her hands are clasped before her and rest on the table.

“Miss Granger,” she says.

“Mrs. Malfoy.” Hermione pulls out a chair. “May I sit down?”

Narcissa gives a slight nod, and Hermione takes her seat, removing a file from her bag. “I wanted to speak to you about your son’s case. And your own. Do you have a lawyer?”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“Why not?”

“I have nothing to say. I believe it is my right to remain silent. Is that not the Muggle saying?”

Hermione feels her eyes widen, as much as she wants to hide her surprise. “It is. But I’m not sure it’s in your best interests not to cooperate.” She tries to regain her composure by flicking through the file, busying herself by unfurling a roll of blank parchment and readying a quill. “As your lawyer, I’m sworn to maintain my client’s confidentiality. Anything you tell me I won’t share with anybody else. But it would help to understand—”

“Have you seen Draco?”

“Yes.” Hermione stares down at the white page. “Have you heard?”

“Have I heard what?”

She places the quill down, threads her fingers together to mimic Narcissa’s pose. “What happened when I saw him.”

Narcissa gives away nothing. Being a lifelong Slytherin who lied to Voldemort’s face, Hermione should have expected nothing less.

“Tell me, Miss Granger, does my son remain unharmed?”

“He’s… unharmed. At least not any worse off than he was before.”

A single eyebrow raise is the only response she gets, but even the subtle movement feels accusatory. “What happened when you met?”

“He appeared in his new form. He told me his version of events and we shook hands and then—”

“He touched you?”

“Yes.”

“And what did you feel?”

“What did I feel?”

“When you touched. What happened then?”

“I could feel his magic. I… it somehow drew us together and then he changed form, changed back into a man—”

“Miss Granger.” Narcissa is gripping her arm, nails cutting into skin. Her face is pulled taut, pupils blown wide in distress. “Are you… I must… I must ask you a personal question.”

“What is it?”

“Are you unclaimed?”

“I am unmarried, single, yes.”

“And you… you have not lain with a man?”

“With a…? Mrs. Malfoy!” Hermione tries to snatch her arm back but the older woman’s grip is as strong as a vise. “What has that got to do with—?”

“Answer the question. Are you intact? Are you a virgin—?”

“Yes!”

Narcissa lets go. Hermione cradles her arm. Both women stare at each other, breathing hard, eyes wide and searching, uncomprehending.

“My son is twenty-four years old,” Narcissa says, a most unexpected non-sequitur, which seems as important as a comment on the weather. “He will be twenty-five in June, in less than six months. If he is not wed—”

“Your son is in prison, in the Ministry’s most secure cell and yet his magic still broke the wards. He’s a seven-foot demon, an unclassifiable magical creature. And until I know what he is, I cannot do anything for him. He will never be free. So tell me. Help me to understand. How can his marital status be relevant to any of this?”

“His lack of a suitable wife is wholly the cause.”

Hermione knows this is dangerous territory. The marriage prospects of Draco Malfoy, the outdated practices of purebloods with their arranged matches and forced bonds and how it all relates to this current curse; none of this can lead to anywhere good. But Hermione is caught now, drawn into his world, fascinated by the glimpse of his undefined magic that still echoes inside her.

“Does this have to do with Astoria?”

“Clever girl.” Narcissa returns to her previous controlled state, hands still atop the table, thumbs pressing together. “We have a long history with the Greengrass family. The older daughter, Daphne, is already married to the youngest Nott. We missed our chance with her due to the restrictions of our probation. I would have had Draco matched much sooner, you see.” And then she sighs. “There has not been a Malfoy who has been unwed past the age of twenty-five for more than sixteen generations.”

“Is this the curse?”

“Yes. But it’s slightly more complicated.”

“I was hardly expecting simple.”

Narcissa tilts her head infinitesimally, clearly unamused. “Lucius was twenty-two when we wed,” she continues on. “I was barely twenty. We were not matched. We fell in love. I had saved myself for him. There was no question—”

And now Hermione understands. “The Malfoys require virgin brides,” she says.

“Do not look so horrified, Miss Granger. It is pureblood tradition and one I believe was once promoted by the elders of the Muggle world.”

“The Muggle world has learned to move beyond such sexist—”

“Save your righteous preaching for your friends. This is not about tradition; this is how we save Draco’s life.”

“We?”

“Astoria was promoted as the ideal wife. I had uncovered no reason why this would not be the case. But two things came to light when I found her in flagrante with my son.”

“She caused him to change?”

“I could sense the magic building in the room. The wards already were disturbed. When I entered, it was like an explosion. I managed to pull them apart and activate a shield. Draco was transformed; he was screaming. There was little time before the aurors would come. I have some skill with legilimency, though not as much as with my occlumency, but it was enough. Astoria had been with another. And on top of that, her family carries its own curse. Her blood was tainted and somehow woke the latent beast within my son. I obliviated her and waited. I could not calm him; I could not help him, not then. But I will do everything I must to protect him now.”

“If what you say is true… if Astoria triggered the curse then that means when we touched…” Hermione does not want to finish the thought, but it does not matter for Narcissa does.

“You can cure him.”

“As his wife?”

“If you must.”

“Are we like soulmates?”

“Do you love him?”

“No.”

“Do not be mistaken. This is no cosmic match, no magical bonding. Your virgin status brought him back when you touched. But it is not enough. There must be marriage. There must be a consummation.”

“Oh god—”

“Think on it, Miss Granger. Speak to Draco. You are an intelligent woman and a compassionate one. I have not forgotten how you and Mr. Potter spoke in our favor during our trials. You kept my son out of Azkaban. Now I ask that you free him from this new prison.”

“What about my blood?”

“Is a virgin not pure?”

“What about a Muggle virgin? Would your husband be okay with that?”

“My husband can be convinced of many things when it comes to the wellbeing of our son.” A sadness sinks into Narcissa’s eyes. “Does Lucius know what has happened to us?”

“It’s unlikely, unless the guards in Azkaban used it as a way to taunt him.”

“Can I ask you another favor then? I have already asked for so much but I—”

“Go right ahead. I doubt it can be more than you’ve asked already.”

“Will you go see him? Tell him all that we have shared. Tell him we are well and we will solve all of this and that I love him. I miss him. I carry him every day in my heart.”

Being exposed to the inner workings of the Malfoys’ marriage is something no one can prepare for. “Okay,” Hermione says slowly.

“Thank you, Miss Granger. You may not feel anything beyond a sense of obligation to my son but you are what I would wish for him.”

Hermione stands and nods. She thinks she might faint once more, but there’s no time for that. There’s too much to say and do, too much to analyze and process. She leaves the room and she runs. Back to the most secure cell. Back to the monster’s lair.

Back to Draco, her client and quite possibly her betrothed.

* * *

I’m not going to marry him, she thinks. But I don’t wish him to die. I don’t wish him to suffer. He has done nothing wrong. He should not be imprisoned. And it’s my job to do everything I can. I must free him.

She paces outside the thick iron door. Six aurors guard the external entry now and the number inside she has been told has doubled. They will not allow her back into the cell. But there is a viewing port through which they can talk. She will have an audience but she doesn’t care. Be brave, little Gryffindor. What is a monster to a lion?

After two security checks and the loss of her wand and outer robes and shoes and all the same unnecessary precautions, she is offered a chair. She sits before the door to the cell. One guard uses their wand to create a transparent panel. On the other side, the room is dark.

“Draco?”

What makes her say his first name? It feels so intimate, like she is the abandoned wife reduced to a conjugal visit, a horde of leering and over-interested wizards hovering behind her and hanging on every word.

“Draco, can you hear me? Are you okay?”

She hears the dreadful scraping across the floor. She can see only black. And then a large clawed hand appears, pressed to what she assumes is transfigured glass.

She hears the guards move behind her, wands being drawn, but she raises her own hand.

“It’s okay,” she says both to the beast and to its captors. She places her palm against his. Her hand is so small by comparison but she holds his fate inside it. “I spoke to your mother.”

“How is she?” The words rumble and grate but she is relieved to hear even his altered voice.

“She’s well. We talked about how to help you. I’m going to help you both.”

“Why would you help us?”

“Because I want to. Because it’s right.” Her fingers trace the lines of his palms, grooves as deep as canyons. She sees his lifeline as a long winding river. “I forgive you,” she says.

“For what?”

“For how you were.”

“I deserve this.”

“This isn’t your fault.”

“How can you help me, Granger?”

“I’m going to speak to the press. And arrange a hearing in the morning. I’ll tell you the news since I guess you don’t get to read the papers.”

“Even if I did, the light’s not so good.”

She smiles. “I’m sorry I tried to take your sarcasm.”

“I’m glad you let me keep it. So what’s the news?”

“It’s a great scandal, you see. A war hero and a Death Eater are engaged.”

Claws scratch against the glass. “Granger.”

“Call me Hermione.”

“You don’t mean—”

“I’ll see you in the morning, Draco.”

Red eyes appear and a snarling mouth. There is an inhuman roar, a fist smashing. The glass is cracked.

“Visit’s over,” a guard says and the door returns to opaque steel. It shudders as a large weight bangs against it. A panel dints inwards. Hermione is dragged back by the aurors. “What did you say to him?!”

“He’ll get over it,” she says. “He’s not going to mess this up.”

_“FUCK YOU, GRANGER!!”_

The voice shakes and cracks the walls.

* * *

Hermione’s plan is tantamount to shouting “FIRE!” in a packed theater. Maximum publicity. Total chaos. She has not slept, bombarded with owls at her office and flat, howlers from Ron and extra security from Harry. She gave Rita Skeeter the exclusive; the woman nearly combusted with malicious glee by the time they were done.

_HERMIONE GRANGER AND DRACO MALFOY ENGAGED. WAR HEROINE PLEDGES TO BREAK DANGEROUS CURSE. “THIS IS A BATTLE FOR THE RIGHTS OF ALL MAGICAL CREATURES.” WIZENGAMOT TO CONVENE TUESDAY MORNING._

She is escorted by special floo into the Ministry building since the crowds outside make accessing the normal entrance impossible. Harry meets her like he did the day before, gripping her arm without fanfare or greeting as he drags her back to the holding cells.

“I don’t want to hear why,” he says. “I gave Ron the day off. He’s more trouble than help with the state you’ve put him in.”

“That is quite his own doing,” she grits out but she does not struggle as she’s led down. “I need to be the one to escort Draco out.”

“Not happening.”

“Trust me. It’s for the best. This is the safest way.”

“No one trusts you anymore, Hermione. It’s all I could do not to have you committed to St. Mungo’s.”

She is undeterred. “Let them try. I am perfectly sane and cognizant of my actions. The Ministry doesn’t like anyone to challenge them. Well, I intend to do just that.”

When they get to Draco’s cell, at least fifteen aurors are outside. Some hold magical restraints, weighty shackles forged by goblins. Hermione guesses no one has dared enter to try and fix them onto Draco.

“There’s no need for that,” she says. “Let me see him.”

Harry nods as he reluctantly lets her go. The outer door is opened. Inside, the inner door hangs crumpled on its hinges.

“Have at it,” Harry says with a resigned sweep of his arm.

She still has her wand and gains passage with a simple _Alohomora_. Darkness still reigns but she casts a _Lumos_ and waits.

“You’re fucking insane,” the dreadful voice says.

Hermione holds out her hand. “Let’s not be late.”

Draco steps forward. He sneers, which should be terrifying in his current state, but she does not fear him. He takes her hand. She feels their magic sing, swirling together, but there is not the shock and uncertainty of before. She guides Draco’s body down with her wand as he transforms. She’s kneeling beside him when he opens his eyes and looks at her. He’s so beautiful, she thinks. She squeezes his human hand and smiles. “I won’t let go if you don’t.”

“That’s how you want to do this?”

She helps him stand. His clothes are rags, his torso bare, his hair greasy and feet caked in dirt. She casts cleansing spells and produces a set of robes and shoes from her bottomless bag. “Here.” She uses magic to dress him. Her magic and his; it still flows together, sated and happy. He looks down on himself.

“Are these off the rack?” he says.

“You’re welcome.” She tugs and drags him towards the door. He’s still a head taller in his human form but puts up much less resistance.

When they step out, Harry and the other aurors step back. They stare, confused by the sight that greets them.

“Lead the way,” Hermione says. They make a strange procession through the Ministry, cramming into an elevator that strains as it moves sideways and down and up and to the atrium. She can feel the sweat on Malfoy’s palm. She squeezes gently and glances up at him. His eyes are fixed straight ahead, his face a mask. Occlumency walls are shifting, being built. He’ll be calm when he’s ready. She’s ready. They can do this.

They walk through the atrium together to the Wizengamot court, aurors surrounding them, press and members of the public crowding them in, yelling abuse and threats and casting questions and accusations with all the aggression of spells. One hex barely misses them and the perpetrator is quickly subdued. She can see a flash of red in the sclera of Malfoy, increased strength in his hand as he senses the threat. They must proceed so cautiously. Stay calm, she thinks. Trust me. She must be strong and trust herself.

No press or public are permitted to the hearing, a decision made due to the security risks. The Wizengamot council all sit on high stacked benches, physically looking down upon them as they step into the room. Narcissa waits, sat behind a table in the center surrounded by her own multiple guards. She turns and looks at Draco, her expression betraying nothing except the warmth and worry that leaks from her eyes. Hermione suspects she is the only one to see it beside her son and only because she spent time studying the woman in the precious, intense minutes that they spoke.

“Be seated,” the Chief Warlock booms, a small wizened man who smashes his gavel like an excited toddler. “Order! We must have order!”

Voices have been rising since they have seen Draco back to his human form and his hand wrapped around Hermione’s. They sit together at a table by Narcissa’s, aurors forming a barrier between them. Quiet is returned, and Hermione stands, Draco rising beside her as they stay linked together.

“I come before the council to petition for the dropping of all charges against Draco Lucius Malfoy and Narcissa Black Malfoy.”

“On what basis, Miss Granger, do you believe these charges can be dropped?” the Chief Warlock says.

“Draco Malfoy is the innocent victim of an ancient family curse, a curse that requires him to wed a virgin bride before the age of twenty-five. The incident with Miss Greengrass was an accident. He is no threat once he is married.”

“But he is not married yet.”

“He is engaged.”

“To whom?”

“I’m sure you have all read the papers this morning but in the interests of clarity and for the record, he is betrothed to me.”

There are agitated mutterings. Aurors stiffen beside them, particularly Harry, who appears to be vibrating with barely controlled rage.

“And when would you be wed to assure this threat is defused?”

“If it would please the court, we can be married right now.”

The ripples of disquiet from before crescendo into outright defiance. “Order! We must have order!” the Chief Warlock yells, drumming his gavel to little effect.

Draco squeezes Hermione’s hand. “You crazy, crazy witch,” he murmurs but she can see amusement in his eyes. His Slytherin side is enjoying the anarchy. They are both merchants of chaos now.

“SILENCE!”

The room acquiesces. The Chief Warlock peers down into the center of the room. “Mr. Malfoy, do you consent to be wed?”

“I do, your Honor.” He is looking at Hermione still, his smirk uncensored.

“Very well—”

“Before we do,” Hermione raises her free hand, “I must request that Mrs. Narcissa Malfoy be let go. She has committed no crime—”

“Obstructing the course of justice—” one council member calls out.

“If we are wed and Mr. Malfoy poses no threat then there is nothing for her to obstruct.”

“If your marriage resolves this issue then I suppose we have no grounds to hold her,” the Chief Warlock concedes.

Other voices speak in dissent. “What about the assault of Astoria Greengrass?”

“There was no assault,” Hermione says. “She was hurt in the unexpected surge of magic and it was through the actions of Mrs. Malfoy that she was not more grievously injured.”

“How do you explain her memory loss?”

“Concussion. The nature of the magic released may have affected her memory given she was in closest proximity to Mr. Malfoy, who also has an incomplete recollection of events.”

“You appear to have an answer for everything, Miss Granger,” the Chief Warlock observes.

“That is my job. Now may we proceed with the wedding?”

It takes a few minutes for the ceremony to be arranged. Narcissa and Harry are allowed to act as witnesses, Harry most begrudgingly until he succumbs to Hermione’s whispered pleas. “I love you, Harry Potter,” she tells him, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

“Isn’t that what you’re supposed to tell your husband?”

“Hush. It’s not what you think.”

“I don’t know what to think,” he grumbles but still takes his place at her left.

The wedding party move to stand before the Chief Warlock’s bench. He raises his wand and begins the vows. Hermione repeats them. Draco does too. Magic rushes around their joined hands like a violent stream, growing in intensity until a yellow light glows against their skin. She can feel heat and power and a steady throbbing beat, Draco’s heart in time with hers. He is looking at her, eyes wide as she thinks hers must be. They are being joined in a magical marriage and it is changing who they are, how the magic flows inside and between them until something has merged and she cannot tell them apart.

“The binding is complete,” the Chief Warlock announces. “The court recognizes the union. I now pronounce you husband and wife.”

The shifting magic around them ceases. All is silent. Still, Hermione is looking at Draco, their hands threaded tightly together as if they always were. She casts her eyes down shyly. “You can let go now,” she says but instead Draco raises their hands and places a kiss to her knuckles.

“I don’t want to,” he tells her.

“But you have to prove—”

“Bossy witch.” And he drops their hands and pulls his fingers free. Hermione steps back. She waits for the change. Waits for the tug on her magic, the dizziness and bottomless need.

It never comes.

“It worked,” she can hear Narcissa say in wonder but her eyes are only on Draco, the awe in his face, the joy as he smiles.

“Bossy, brilliant witch,” he repeats and he drags her into his arms until he is kissing her, her face cradled reverently in his palms. “You’re amazing.” His words drift warm across her mouth and her lips part until she is kissing him back. Her arms are locked around his neck and she is pulled flush against his lithe body, slim yet strong, warm and filled with new magic and pulsing with life.

“Ahem.” Harry clears his throat behind them and they finally separate. Hermione is blushing. Draco is grinning like a fool, a victorious handsome idiot.

“I’m allowed to kiss my wife, Potter,” he says and the word makes her heart flutter.

Oh bloody hell, Hermione thinks.

She’s Draco Malfoy’s wife.


	2. Cohabitation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: The trainwreck of tropes continues. I have no explanation or justification for any of this. But I love y’all for reading and still indulging me. <3

Hermione is only the slightest bit lightheaded as they leave the courtroom. She’s dissociating, she thinks; she read about it in a psychology textbook during the war. At the time it seemed prudent to prepare, as if trauma was an exam you could fail or pass. It didn’t help then and it doesn’t help now. Although she finds it’s a lot easier to analyze things when you’re having an out-of-body experience.

She observes that Draco is close to his mother. He and Narcissa embrace after proceedings, when the Chief Warlock formally declares that they are free to leave (there are some specifics about changes to the terms of the Malfoys’ probation and increased monitoring for Draco, but Hermione cannot hear so well; she can only see). Draco covers his mother’s hand with his own as she holds his cheek. It’s surprisingly intimate in a room with so many people, and floating Hermione watches her corporeal self hover awkwardly beside them.

Then Draco takes them both by the arm, leading them out into the atrium. They are swarmed. Her unruly mop of hair is tossed about like flotsam in an ocean of people. Draco’s arm curls protectively around her as aurors fight to clear a path for them. Her face turns into his chest and she blocks out all the yells and taunts, lets her mind focus on his heartbeat.

“—I’ll sue for every last knut the Ministry has.”

These are the first words she registers clearly. She looks up. They are standing in an elevator with Harry and six other aurors, all of whom are glaring at Draco.

“Darling, there’ll be plenty of time for reparations,” Narcissa says with a relaxed nonchalance Hermione supposes only a pureblood can attain. “I’m more concerned with the state of the Manor. I’m not sure it’s currently habitable.”

“It’s not,” Harry says.

“Well Granger, what about your place?”

Malfoy is looking at her expectantly. Harry is looking like he is going to burst into hysterical laughter.

“My place?” she repeats.

“Since we can’t stay at the Manor. If the Ministry insists that we have to live together—”

The elevator’s too small for so many people. Did the walls move closer? Where has all the air gone? This is a panic attack, she thinks. I feel like I’m going to die but I’m not dying, which is worse; this is happening.

“Oh god.”

“Just breathe,” Draco says. He has his hands on her shoulders. He guides her out the elevator and into the auror office and sits her on a chair. While she breathes into a paper bag, parchments are signed and Draco and Narcissa have their wands returned.

“I take it there’s a secure floo network we can use?” Draco asks of Harry. He refills a glass of water and hands it to Hermione, wand casually twirling in his other hand as if he has run of the place.

Hermione soon learns this is because he has run of most places.

They take the floo straight to Gringotts and are escorted by a senior goblin to the Malfoy family vault. Entry requires a drop of blood from Draco. He also has the goblins take a drop of blood from her. “All this is yours,” he tells her as the vault opens. “They have your blood on file as a Malfoy now.”

Hermione stares into a vast cave of wonders. It looks like the room of gold coins Scrooge McDuck would dive into at the beginning of each cartoon. She doubts Malfoy would get the reference and giggles unexpectedly.

Well, shit.

He glances at her as he passes, smiling. “Didn’t I tell you, Granger? You’re filthy stinking rich.”

He and Narcissa wander around familiarly, Narcissa searching out deeds to several properties that they might consider as temporary homes. Malfoy collects a large bag of galleons he dubs “spending money” then leads Hermione to an antique cabinet consisting of dozens of small drawers.

“Take your pick.”

“Are you serious?”

“Are you daft? We got married. You need a ring becoming of a Malfoy bride.”  
  
She throws her hands over her mouth as she starts giggling again. She is daft. She’s going to lose it.

“Here.” Malfoy pulls open a random drawer. It contains a tray of eight rings of various precious stones, each most likely worth more than everything Hermione owns. “Sapphire. That’s your birthstone, right?”

“Yes.”

“Try this one and any of the next three drawers down. I’m going to go pay off the goblins to keep the Ministry out. Don’t take too long.”

He leaves her to ponder when the exact moment was that she ceded all control of her life and Malfoy took possession of it. Marriage shouldn’t work like that, she thinks. But maybe it’s just that work is the only part of her life she feels in charge of. Hermione day-to-day is a single homebody who likes to read and has deep and meaningful conversations with her cat. She hasn’t dated since things with Ron ended amicably if passionlessly. That seemed to be the problem. No spark, just an ember that barely kept her warm and she let burn out into nothing. Six years ago now. She kept herself busy with her career and that was her friend and her lover; she left no time for anything else.

“Too much choice can be overwhelming,” Narcissa says. She stands by Hermione’s side, fingers toying with her own wedding bands. “Lucius tried so hard to make life easy in those early days. Draco should know better.”

“I don’t think our current situation and your marriage can be compared.” Hermione folds her arms. “What am I even doing?”

“Honoring your promise. The rest can come later.” Narcissa picks out a slim band in white gold with a single princess-cut blue sapphire. It is exactly the sort of classic, unfussy ring Hermione would have chosen. She takes Hermione’s left hand and slides it on. “These rings are charmed to fit. It rather becomes you.”

Hermione stares at her hand and thinks it feels more like a shackle.

* * *

After Gringotts, Narcissa and the newly anointed Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy part ways. Narcissa claims it is their wedding day after all and she is sure they want some privacy (which might as well have been a knowing wink). There is too much to do and she plans to survey the Manor then start to work on a rarely used townhouse off Diagon Alley.

It seems to Hermione that with the Malfoys you don’t marry the man so much as become subsumed by the entire family, complete with its generations of history and tradition, ancient curses included. For Narcissa, being Lady Malfoy is a career. It is not one that appeals to Hermione and she wonders about Crookshanks and the leftover Indian takeaway in the fridge and the pulp thriller she planned to finish, spread forgotten at a crucial point over the arm of her sofa. Her life was very simple barely three hours ago. Now she stands inside a magical tailors she never knew existed as Draco pays more than her annual salary for a set of new bespoke robes.

“How tall are you?” he says, glancing over the head of the elderly hunchbacked tailor as he makes his final adjustments.

“Me? Five-four-ish.”

“Five-four-ish? Does that mean five-three? I spent a good many years being six-foot-ish but Reginald here tells me that my measurements have changed. And you look smaller than I remember. Have I grown?”

“Six foot three, sir, and four more inches across the back and chest,” Reginald says.

“Come here, Granger.”

She does. She barely reaches his shoulder and he does seem somewhat broader as he looms over her. “I don’t understand,” she says.

“Perhaps you’re shrinking.”

“Hardly.”

“Our children won’t be gnomes, will they?”

“Children?!”

He has a set of robes made for her in midnight blue. He comes to stand behind her before a mirror once she’s put them on. They look like a portrait together, his pale coloring and her darker skin and hair a striking contrast. A handsome pair, she thinks and watches as his hands run over her shoulders and down her arms. It makes her skin tingle beneath the silken fabric.

“Did Mother choose this?” he says, lifting her left hand to study the ring.

“Why?”

“It’s perfect on you.”

“So why didn’t I choose it?”

“You didn’t want to.” He smiles at her ruefully in the mirror. “How about lunch then I’ll book us a suite.”

Her stomach grumbles. Hermione frowns. “Fine,” she says. “But you don’t have to woo me. And I need to go home at some point.”

“Let me give you a honeymoon.”

His thumb rubs across her knuckles and she’s reminded of the feel of his lips, hot and insistent and surprisingly lush.

“If it’s anything like the wedding, I’ll pass.” She manages to pull her hand free but fails to slow down her heart rate. “I am still hungry.”

There’s a knowing look in Draco’s eyes and a flash of red. “The day’s still young,” he declares and leads her back outside.

They eat in a small exclusive French restaurant where the maitre’d knows Draco by name—“Monsieur Malfoy”—and a private booth is readied for them without prior reservation. The menu is in French and Draco orders in French and Hermione struggles with her school-level conversational best.

Champagne is served before the first course and Malfoy makes a toast. “Thank you. You saved my life today.”

“I did my job.”

“Do you marry all your clients? Is there a centaur ex-husband I don’t know about?”

“Of course not!”

“It was above and beyond, Granger.”

“I couldn’t let them treat you like that. I had to win.”

“At all costs? Then I’m still grateful, Mrs. Malfoy.”

“Please don’t call me that.”

He waits until she grudgingly clinks her glass with his. “I’m not so archaic that I expect you to change your name. And honestly, I’d miss calling you Granger.”

“What a feminist.”

She thinks it’s the first time that she hears him truly laugh.

They navigate the next nine courses with wine and a map of least controversial topics for two former enemies now spouses to converse on. Hermione’s full by the fourth but Draco’s appetite is voracious and he happily eats enough for them both or what she thinks would sufficiently feed a small family. After what must be close to a bottle’s worth of lubrication, Hermione doesn’t particularly mind when Malfoy ventures into the territory of Ron. She gives the same spiel that she always does, about how the flame burned out.

“Small wick,” Malfoy says and laughs again when she kicks him under the table.

His own conquests make her face warm, though it must be glowing red from all the alcohol already. There were few potential serious marital prospects but brief company could always be found in the arms of a witch tempted by money, good looks and the cliched cachet of bedding a supposed bad boy. She’s surprised by how many of the witches they knew in school he had time to sleep with, given the less than pleasurable activities that were being demanded of him back then.

“Why didn’t you sleep with him?” he asks artlessly, those mesmerizing gray eyes focused solely on her, mouth parting to accept a small yet decadent spoonful of chocolate mousse.

“Ron?”

Malfoy has a sweet tooth or teeth set in perfectly straight and gleaming white rows, his incisors sharp but nothing like the fangs he had grown before. The dessert seems too rich to Hermione and so he is helping himself off her plate.

“Who else? How many men are there that you haven’t slept with?”

“Hilarious.”

“Are you waiting for something?”

“I don’t know. It’s like I forgot. And then I was too busy to remember. It’s never been important, not like my work.”

“You must be pent up.”

“I… I can relax.”

“Do tell,” he says, the tip of his tongue dragging along the edge of the spoon.

Her eyes avert to her lap; her fingers toy with her napkin. “I’ve already said too much. And it’s not a big deal.”

“It is to me. Not like that,” he adds when her face darts up in a scowl. “Your inadvertent chastity broke the curse. Thank fuck you stayed a good girl, Granger.”

It’s the most ridiculous thing she’s ever heard. She tries not to laugh but then she can’t stop and then she doesn’t want to. Tears are leaking from her eyes and she’s shaking; the release is cathartic.

“I’m sorry,” she manages.

“Don’t be.” Malfoy is studying her with an expression she might think adoration if they were sober and he was anybody else. He reaches across and wipes a tear from her cheek. “Invite me back to your place,” he tells her then leaves to pay the bill.

Hermione touches her face where his fingers have been and concludes that this has sadly been her best ever date.

* * *

She apparates them from the back of the restaurant to inside her building. It’s late in the day but still light out and they want to avoid being seen. Hermione likes her apartment building for its quiet, her closest neighbor being a nonagenarian wizard who is deaf and never leaves.

Draco waits seemingly patiently as she lowers her wards and unlocks the door. But as soon as it is open he stops her.

“Allow me.”

Thank Merlin for the deaf neighbor; she screams as he sweeps her into his arms.

“Tradition, Granger. My feminism only goes so far,” he says, carrying her over the threshold. He kicks the door shut behind him then comes to an abrupt halt. “Holy fucking shit, is this it?”

“Put me down!”

He dumps her on the sofa. “I know I said you were small but I’ve seen house-elves with bigger dwellings.”

“It’s you who got bigger.”

“Uh-uh. Don’t pull that perspective thing. Even Potter would look like Hagrid in this place.”

“You wanted to come here.”

“I guess I did. So can I stay? At least until I can buy us somewhere we can both comfortably stand in.”

“You’re not buying me a new flat!” she cries as she struggles to her feet.

“No. I’ll buy us a house. At least until the Manor’s fixed.”

“I’m not living in the Manor.”

“Oh.” Malfoy takes her place on the sofa. It does look rather pathetic when paired to his proportions. “I didn’t think,” he says.

“Something of a habit.”

“Be nice.” Just then Crookshanks rushes in, rubbing up against Hermione’s legs and hissing at her guest. “What the fuck is that?”

“Be nice,” she sing-songs and picks up her familiar. “We’re a package deal, me and Crookshanks. I have to deal with all your Malfoy nonsense, you can learn to like my cat.”

“You ask too much of me, Granger.”

“You just expected me to live in the place I got tortured.”

“Touché.” He kicks his legs up and places his hands behind his head. “When you’ve deflead that thing, how about a cup of coffee?”

She acquiesces, feeling too tired and increasingly hungover to argue. She’s in that vague purgatory between drunk and sober where all she wants to do is sleep but probably can’t, and Crookshanks is clawing at her chest, clearly annoyed and hungry. It’s only two steps to the kitchen as she leaves Malfoy sprawled across the couch. She can see the long pointed soles of his dragon-hide boots hanging over the edge from where she stands behind the counter. Crookshanks refuses his usual food since she ignored him all day and, since she did get married and they should be celebrating, she treats him to a tin of tuna. Malfoy gets a mug of instant Nescafe left black.

“I don’t know how you take it,” she says, slamming it on her wonky coffee table.

He opens one eye. “Usually not spilled and with a coaster.” He sits up and lifts the mug, taking a sniff. “What is this?”

“Coffee.”

“Is this the Muggle version?”

“Of a kind. Is that a problem?”

He takes a sip and pulls a face. “Delightful, darling.” The mug is left to go cold and leaves a permanent ring on her table. He pats the empty cushion beside him. “Sit with me.”

She does.

“How does it feel to be married?” he says.

“Strange. How does it feel to be a cursed demon trapped under Ministry supervision?”

“Well, I’ve got this pretty amazing lawyer who also happens to have this hot virginal librarian thing going on so—”

“Disgusting. You know I’m not sleeping with you, right?”

“Right. But I can still sleep here?”

“Be my guest.”

“Is that any way to treat your husband?”

She throws her head back and leans against his shoulder. “Weirdest fucking day of my life.”

“I like it when you swear.”

“Don’t ruin swearing for me. I gave you your sarcasm back.”

“Fair is fair.”

“What time is it even?”

“Almost six o’clock.”

“I feel exhausted.”

“Then go to sleep, Granger.” He wraps an arm around her and she curls up more snugly against him. She can hear him talking softly and it’s like a bedtime story, his voice a soothing lullaby. “I can’t believe our wedding night is being spent in this pauper’s hovel. I was always going to go to Portofino for my honeymoon. We have a house on the harbor. We’d wake up to that view, me and whoever it was. I don’t know why I imagined my honeymoon before I imagined my wife. But I could take you one day. I can see you there, all ludicrous curls and scowling mouth, wearing nothing but my shirt, sipping cappuccino at breakfast. Real fucking coffee, Granger. I think you just tried to poison me with that shit. We’d drink real coffee and we’d swim and then we’d eat on the terrace and I’d watch you go brown in the sun while I hide in the shade. You don’t want to see me go red; I look like a monster—”

* * *

When she wakes, she’s suffocating. A crushing weight is pressing down on her chest and she can’t move. It’s like a bad dream but she’s conscious and she’s wheezing, arms pinned and legs kicking out.

She squints against the sunlight streaming in from a window. She’s trapped in bed by a huge arm laying across her, a huger body resting by her side.

“Malf—” she tries.

The body stirs; the arm moves and she’s gasping, rolling off the bed.

“Granger?” That voice again. She hears the creak of wood as he’s shifting then a cracking sound as the bed collapses. “FUCK!”

Malfoy the seven-foot demon is standing amongst the wreckage of her bed. His wings unfurl and knock books off shelves and pictures from the walls. His eyes are red and wide and he’s panting.

“What the fuck?”

She panting too. “Calm down.” Even her deaf neighbor must have heard this. “You have to be quiet. There’ll have aurors at our door. Let me figure this out.”

“Figure what out? I’m fucked. I’m still cursed!” His fist smashes through a wall; luckily it adjoins with her bathroom.

“Draco, look at me.”

She’s still in her fancy robes from the day before and he’s in the rags of his. Fractured pieces of wood scratch at her feet as she moves towards him, holding out her hand. “Maybe if I touch you like before.”

He grabs her hand. The magic swirls between them but it feels muted. Nothing changes. Malfoy growls and tugs her towards him, wraps her up in his arms so that her feet leave the floor.

“You’re going to crush me!” she mumbles against his chest.

“Sorry.” He loosens his grip only slightly. He has her by the waist, hands spanning the circumference easily as he raises her to meet his eyes. “What do we do? Don’t let them take me!”

“It must be part of the curse. We didn’t break it fully. Your mother said…” She trails off. She tried to forget this part.

“My mother said what?!”

She’s sure he doesn’t mean to shake her but she is thrown around like a rag doll. “Be gentle, please.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Look at me.” She holds his monstrous face between her tiny hands. “The marriage needs to be consummated.”

“How?”

She glances down, trying not to imagine how in proportion certain parts of him must be. “You know better than me. But I’m not sure about the logistics. I don’t want to do it like this.”

“And you think I do? I’d tear you in half, Granger. I already broke the bed and not in the fun way.” He draws her closer towards him. “I don’t want to stay like this,” he pleads.

“We’ll figure it out.” Her hands keep stroking his cheeks and she places a kiss to his forehead. Something sparks between them. His hold on her waist tightens but they are sinking. She wraps her arms around him and keeps pressing her lips to his face. Cold scales become warm skin and they are lying amongst a broken bed, clinging to each other, her mouth finding his.

God, how he kisses her. He rolls her onto her back and a piece of wood is pressing beneath the warped mattress but she can’t care. His hands are moving from her waist along her sides, grabbing her hair, skimming the edge of her breasts.

“You’re a miracle, Granger.”

She can feel him hard against her, right there, between her thighs. He’s grinding down and she moans.

“Not like this.”

There’s banging from outside where they aren’t lying in a mess of splinters and lust. She tries to regain control of herself.

“Not like this,” she repeats and kisses him again for good measure. He lets her up, and she tells him to stay where he is then goes to the front door.

Harry stands on the other side, along with Ron and three more aurors.

“There was another magical surge,” Harry says. “The neighbors downstairs heard loud bangs and raised voices. What’s going on, Hermione?”

She drags a hand through her hair, presses fingers to her lips. She feels disheveled. She must look ravished because she has been.

“Where is he?” Ron says, shoving past Harry and her.

“He’s—”

“Right here.” Malfoy emerges from the bedroom, a bedsheet wrapped low about his waist. There are scratches on his skin, from her or the broken bed, she’s no idea, but was his chest always so sculpted? He looks like an illicit statue. He looks obscene. Everyone else needs to leave her flat right now.

“Can we help you?” He arches one aristocratic eyebrow. It’s an infuriating, beautiful look, she thinks.

Ron raises his wand, appearing ready to cast an Unforgivable. “If you’ve hurt her—”

“I’m fine,” Hermione spits out. She moves towards Malfoy, trying to place herself between him and harm’s way, but he takes it as an invitation to snake an arm around her.

“Make them leave,” he says, head dipping down to whisper in her ear (still loud enough for the rest to hear), “I’m not done with you yet.”

Hermione’s thighs squeeze together. “I promise we’re good,” she says, nails digging into Malfoy’s forearm as he tightens his grip; he still doesn’t budge. “I guess we just got carried away. Newly weds and all.”

She wants to die of embarrassment at the incredulous look of Harry and the jealous sounds of rage from Ron and the awkward to leering expressions of the other aurors.

“Sorry to bother you,” Harry says, now falling on mortified. He forces the rest of the men out, having to drag Ron by the collar with him. Her apartment’s never felt so small but the echo is resoundingly loud as the door shuts behind them.

“Oh my god. Oh my god.” Hermione sinks to the ground once Malfoy releases her. Her head rests in her hands. “What were you thinking?”

“It got them to leave.” Malfoy has lost the sheet as he walks to the kitchen. There are scraps of his pants left but not much else. “Do you have actual coffee?”

“They think—”

“What? That we fucked? It’s what married couples do, at least the newly married ones. Speaking of which.” He turns, leaning against the counter, arms folded and muscles she never noticed before tensing as he does. “I think we should.”

“What?”

“Do as the married couples do. I don’t know how much time I’ve got left.”

“I…” She stands. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“It’s not how this works! I don’t even love you.”

“So what?”

“It’s my first time, okay? You wait for this long, you want it to be special.”

“What could be more special than helping me?”

“This isn’t all about you!”

“Of course it is!”

“You selfish prat!” Arguing already; their marriage feels unnervingly authentic. “Kissing works,” she says, slamming a fist into her palm for emphasis. “It works and if you change again we can snog, alright? I just… this is all so fast. I barely even know you.”

“Well, get studying, Granger.” He finds her jar of instant coffee and tosses it in the trash. “I’m about to give you a crash course.”

* * *

Lesson number one: Draco Malfoy has no shame about his body.

He strips off what is left of his clothes and walks unabashedly naked to the bathroom. “Do you think we can transfigure these?” he says as he drops the torn rags to the floor.

Hermione squeals and covers her eyes. She keeps them half-closed as she works on repairing the hole in her bedroom wall, where she can see his silhouette through a curtain of steam from the shower. “This bathroom’s not fit for a pigmy, Granger,” she hears him grumble. He at least has a towel when he emerges, but he’s using it to dry his hair. “I smell like my grandmother’s perfume.”

“Here!” She hands him pants she transfigured with a wordless and blind incantation.

“Not bad.” He’s looking down at himself when she peers through her fingers, his most intimate parts now covered. He continues to dress, fixing the rest of his robes himself as she removes the detritus of her bed frame. She notes the faded Dark Mark on his arm as he slides it into the sleeve of his shirt but says nothing of it. Who are you? she thinks. It’s hard to reconcile the gorgeous figure he cuts with the skinny conniving ferret of a boy she knew in school, but is the man he is now reflected in this perfect shell or the beast lurking inside him?

She starts to understand when she’s showered and changed herself. He’s browsing her bookshelves and poking at her knickknacks while Crookshanks hisses at his feet. When a paw shoots out and claws at his ankle, Malfoy looks down and growls. She sees a flash of red eyes and the snarl of fangs as Crookshanks flees under the sofa.

“Leave him alone!”

Malfoy blinks. He finds her watching him and frowns. “That thing’s practically feral,” he says without a hint of irony.

“Are you okay, boy?” Hermione is on her knees, trying to lure the quivering ball of orange fur out. “Crookshanks is an excellent judge of character,” she says, the cat now cradled in her arms. “Ssh, you’re alright, my love. Ignore the ugly brute. He’s all bark, no bite.”

“Ugly?”

“And vain and cruel.”

“So you were watching?” Malfoy sneers.

“You will wear clothes in my presence. And you’ll be kind to Crookshanks.” She placates the aforementioned pet with a saucer of whole milk. “I’m going to make a list of ground rules,” she says and starts to gather her things.

“Of course you are.”

“I need to go to work. What are you going to do?”

“Come with you.”

“Why?”

“Why not?”

“Don’t you have things to keep you busy? I don’t know, like a job?”

“Jobs are for peasants.”

“Oh my god. What have you done for the last six years?”

“What have I done? Shall I enlighten you, Granger?” He’s pacing and running a hand through his perfectly tousled hair. “They put me under house arrest for two years. We weren’t allowed any visitors. I couldn’t even fly my broom over our grounds. There was no correspondence with Father. We had aurors at our door every day. One tried to convince Mother that her husband was dead. They ignored our complaints. They kept our wands. When we were free from that prison, I spent the next two years fighting to get most of our assets unfrozen and transferred to my name. They’d removed my father from the board of Malfoy Industries. I was only let back in by a single vote. After that, Mother made me accept every social engagement, trying to find me a bride. Astoria Greengrass was our last hope. But I was already cursed by my blood and by the fucking Ministry. So don’t ask me if I work. My only job has been survival. And now that rests on you.”

“You can come with me,” she says quietly.

Lesson number two: Draco Malfoy is a master of self-preservation.

He insists they disillusion themselves before apparating to her office. There are press waiting outside and at least one Ministry official. Several owls are all perched on the edge of a window. Hermione quickly lets them in then makes sure the blinds are drawn and puts a locking spell on the door and a _Muffliato_ charm over the room.

“I’m sure you think this whole miniaturized aesthetic is charming, but I’ve owned bigger shoeboxes.” He has his feet on her desk. His legs appear incongruously long in the admittedly small space. Hermione tries to shove them aside as she starts to work through her owl correspondence but they have the give of refined lead. Is she really so weak?

“Just so you know, I’m going to ignore you while I focus on this mysterious thing I call a job,” she says.

“Can I use your floo?”

“Go right ahead.” She thinks she hears him talking to his mother then somebody else, maybe a house-elf. She’ll have to broach that topic carefully but broach she will. She replies to the first few owls while she’s casually eavesdropping, rescheduling a meeting with one of her werewolf clients and following up on the latest brief in a land dispute claim on behalf of a family of selkies. Then she opens a scroll from the Ministry.

“Granger, how much do you make?”

She’s about to reply that she mostly works pro bono when the words on the page finally sink in. It is a complaint filed with the Magical Legal Council, the regulatory body for wizarding lawyers. Unlike the independent Muggle equivalent, it operates under the Ministry’s jurisdiction. And she is a freelance employee of the Ministry in her specialized role.

Except now she has been suspended.

“Granger?”

She keeps staring at the parchment. It can’t be so. Only one day and some spiteful dogsbody has taken it upon themselves to point out the conflict of interest in her marrying a client. The rules of probity have never been as strict in the Wizarding World and are even more murky when it comes to magical creatures. This act is personal and deliberate. She has been suspended from practice pending a formal tribunal. Her rebellious efforts on behalf of Draco might cost her her career.

“My life is ruined,” she says.

“Let me see that.” Draco snatches the paper from her, though she puts up no resistance. She watches him read, thinking you did this to me, the one who called me mudblood and watched me suffer and never cared a jot about me. And now you’re my husband.

“Oh god.” She starts to dissociate again.

“You can fight this,” he says, not perturbed in the slightest.

“How?”

“Like you did for me. Take control of the narrative, Granger.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Yes, it is. There’s a horde of vultures outside. Go tell them what you want them to hear.”

“You actually make sense.”

“Well, I learned these things the hard way.”

“But what do I say?”

He hands the fateful parchment back. “In this twisted world we live in, there’s nothing more shocking than the truth.”

He follows her down and waits in the entryway when she opens the front door. Cameras flash in her face, and primed wands and readied quills are thrust forward. Hermione raises her hand and waits for a quiet that never comes.

“SILENCE!”

Malfoy’s voice booms like it did in the holding cell. But she can see he is unaltered as she finds him standing right behind her. His hands rest on her shoulders as he tells the gathered crowd with his normal patrician drawl, “My wife would like to make a statement.”

Lesson number three: Draco Malfoy is protective of what is his.

It’s funny how this simple action has steadied her twice already. His hands are large enough to ground her and keep her focused. Though the effect is lost as his thumbs massage the base of her neck and he whispers, “The floor is yours.”

“I…” Hermione takes a breath and wills her voice to stay calm. “As you know, I am married to Draco Malfoy. What you might not have heard is that the Ministry has turned this into a witch-hunt against me. I have been suspended from my legal practice for standing up for the rights of my client, a magical creature not only victim to a curse but victim to the prejudice and unlawful treatment of the Ministry. His situation is unique and the circumstances so happened to fall that the only way to contain his magic and meet the requirements of the Ministry for his release was to marry an unwed virgin. Well, as it turned out that was me. This is not about love because that is not why we are together. This is not about me breaching the code of conduct of my profession because there was no prior relationship between us. This is about a longstanding grudge against both the Malfoy family and me as the main legal challenge to the Ministry’s continued denial of the rights of all magical creatures. And I’m going to fight them all the way on this. Any questions?”

The silence is broken by a roar of voices.

“Are you sleeping together?”

“No, we are not.” Malfoy’s fingers dig into her flesh as she continues. “We are cohabiting and working together to ensure that the terms that the Ministry set for the Malfoys’ release are met. We have been cooperating fully.”

“What about a Malfoy heir?”

“Is Draco Malfoy still dangerous?”

“How can you defend a former Death Eater and servant of Voldemort?”

“That’s enough,” Malfoy says, dragging Hermione’s body behind him. He moves to close the door when a Ministry official thrusts out a hand, pushing his way through to the front.

“I’m here to deliver this,” he says and Malfoy takes the proffered scroll.

Hermione peeks her head around Draco’s elbow. “What is it?”

“The date of your disciplinary tribunal,” the official says. “See you at the Ministry on Monday.”

Malfoy grabs him by the front of his robes and lifts him off his feet. “Thank you for the ample warning,” he says and throws the man back into the crowd, slamming the door shut behind him. “Parasites,” he says.

“When did you get so strong?”

“I don’t know. Maybe when I got taller?”

“Is it the curse?”

He turns to look at Hermione. “Do I look different? Am I changing into a monster?”

“Some would say you already are.”

“But do you think that?”

“I’m trying to figure it out.” She takes the scroll from him and confirms what the official said. She has less than a week to try and salvage her career. “I’ve risked everything for you,” she tells him, her hands crumpling the paper. “This job is all I have. And now we’re married and I don’t know if you even care about me. You never liked me before. In fact, you wished me dead and actively hated my existence. I might have made a mistake but I still can’t regret everything. Even with what I thought of you at school, I could never let them keep you for simply being something else. That’s the right of all magical creatures and that’s what my job means. Do you understand?”

“Did you have to tell them that we weren’t sleeping together?”

“Is that it? That’s all you care about? What on earth am I doing?”

She leaves him in the hallway and goes back to her office, warding the door and sitting at her desk. She doesn’t cry, only stares at the ring on her hand for a minute. Then Hermione does what she does best and gets back to work.

* * *

When she returns to her flat that evening, she finds a small army of house-elves spread between the kitchen and the sitting area. Some are cooking what appears to be an elaborate meal while others are rearranging her bookshelves and sweeping the floor and dusting furniture. One is even attempting to groom Crookshanks, who stands paralysed in apparent outrage.

“Malfoy!” she yells.

He appears from the bedroom in another set of expensive robes. “You’re home already? I assumed you’d be working until some inhuman hour trying to bring down the Ministry. I wanted to have everything ready first.”

“What are you doing? Why do you have enslaved magical creatures in my home? Why are they touching my things?”

“It was meant to be a surprise,” he says and grabs her arm, leading her back to the bedroom. “See?”

The remnants of her bed have been replaced by a large mattress left directly on the floor and covered in luxurious sheets and pillows. A house-elf is artfully arranging throw cushions as they enter but stops when she sees them.

“Master Draco, is its to your liking?”

“Why don’t you ask the Mistress, Lacey.”

The elf, wearing what looks like a tasseled lampshade as a skirt, attempts a curtsy. “Most pleased to meet you, Mistress Granger. Master says yous not be taking the Malfoy name but we should treat you as his Lady.”

“Thank you, Lacey.” Hermione wants to kill her husband but the bed looks impossibly comfortable. The walls have been repainted too in a warm red that matches the color scheme of the bedding. Not a Slytherin green is in sight.

“Let me show you the bathroom,” he says.

They go inside and she finds where the green has been hiding. Some kind of extension spell has been placed and now there’s a clawfoot tub in aquamarine ceramic and with polished chrome fittings.

“When you’ve freshened up, I can show you what I’ve done with the closet.”

“I don’t have a closet.”

“You didn’t before.” He steps out before she can punch him, poking just his head back in. “Dinner should be ready soon but take your time.” And he closes the door.

She emerges almost two hours later, having cursed his name while stretched in the bath and plotted his demise while searching for a change of clothes in her new walk-in closet. The elves have sorted all her items by style and color and there are several sets of robes and dresses she has never seen before, along with a ridiculous amount belonging to Malfoy. She opts for sweats and a faded Gryffindor t-shirt, her hair still wet and pulled up into a bun.

Malfoy sits at a small antique (but still new to her apartment) dining table lit by candles and without any elves to be found.

“I was growing concerned you might have drowned in the bath.” He pulls out her chair. “Hungry?”

“Furious,” Hermione says as she sits. “My life is my own. You don’t get to do this.”

“I thought—”

“What? That a total disregard of personal boundaries would somehow make things right? That the way to my heart is through abuse of house-elves?”

“At least eat something.”

“Fine.”

“I don’t understand you, Granger.”

“That’s the problem. You’ve forced yourself into nearly every aspect of my life but it’s like you don’t really see me.”

“I see you fine.”

“So what do you see?”

He pours them vintage wine from a bottle with a dusty label that obscures the year. “My future,” he says as he raises his glass; it’s made of crystal and obviously not hers. “I don’t know what to make of it. I spoke to Mother and she confirmed the only way to break the curse is to consummate our marriage and before I turn twenty-five. I have five months to prove my worth to you. And to earn your trust. And to get to know you better. I’ve made a hash of it so far, haven’t I?”

“One might use the word clusterfuck.”

“I still like the swearing.” He allows himself a small smile.

“What do you want to do with your life?” she asks of him and he looks at her as if no one has ever asked him the question before.

“I don’t know. I don’t want to be a monster. And I don’t want to be victim of the Ministry forever. Beyond that, I’ve never really thought about it.”

“Do you know something I admire about people?” She sips the wine; it tastes like heaven. “Ambition. Everyone’s got potential but that doesn’t mean much if you don’t make the most if it. And you have everything at your fingertips, Draco. Why would you want to waste it?”

“Am I Draco now? For good?”

“It keeps changing in my head. It’s not even based on any mood, just the two halves of you and the possibility of each. You can call me Hermione too, if you like.”

“You make me feel like I haven’t earned it. And it keeps you at a distance.”

“Hermione Malfoy,” she tries out. “That would sound too close.”

“It would sound too perfect,” he says and downs what’s left in his glass.

They don’t speak much for the remainder of dinner. He clears up their plates and when she thinks he’s about to do the washing-up, a house-elf appears, this one wearing a napkin as a toga.

“Did the Mistress like dinner?” the elf says.

“What say you Mistress? Pob here’s one of our best cooks.”

“It was delicious. Thank you, Pob.” Hermione stands. “I’m going to bed,” she says and hopes that her voice and expression convey her disappointment to the Master.

Malfoy crawls in beside her some time later. “I messed up,” he says.

“Just go to sleep.” Her face is partly muffled by the pillow and thus adequately hides her tears.

She stays staring towards the window as she feels him toss and turn and his magic change and the mattress sink.

“Hermione.”

The voice is horrid and pained. She rolls over to meet the monster’s face cast in faint moonlight. “You still haven’t earned it yet,” she tells him as she strokes his cheek and kisses him slowly back into being whatever version of himself this is. Yet she doesn’t stop him when he’s returning her kisses, his hands slipping under her t-shirt and over her bare skin.

“Let me touch you,” he begs.

“Please.”

She has never been touched like this.

Her breasts arch against his palms and his mouth presses along her belly. This is more than the snogging that she agreed to this morning. A fire is building within. It’s too hot and not enough and she wants out of her skin like there’s a monster inside her just like his.

He lowers down her shorts, and fingers trace along heated cotton. “Here?” He kisses over her closed eyelids. There’s another hand threading through her hair, teasing out every curl. He might as well have ten thousand hands, she thinks. Sensation is coursing through her body and igniting everything.

“Please,” she breathes as his motions grow and she burns like a dying star.

Please. Oh god please.

This isn’t love, she thinks. But it’s more than obligation. There’s magic in the air and in their blood, somehow shared between them. Can he feel what she feels? Is he dying too? She keeps her eyes closed and waits for an answer.

It is quiet in the dark as he brings her to release.

“I promise you,” he tells her as she lies like liquid in his arms, “it’ll have been worth the wait. Whenever you’re ready, love.”

Hermione falls asleep after her first day of marriage trying to make sense of what she has learned.

Lesson number four: Draco Malfoy—her husband—appears to be a man of his word.


	3. Consummation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: And so the trope trainwreck finally reaches the station. Thanks for joining me on this mess of a ride. <3
> 
> Please see the end note for trigger warnings.

The time between Draco existing as a human and becoming a monster grows shorter. It has only been four days. Each night she has kissed him and allowed him to hold her. It is a mutually beneficial arrangement; a kind of symbiosis. He shows his gratitude in eager touches, in acts of pleasure, drawing joy from her with deft and clever hands and a filthy mouth. She does not reciprocate and makes no comment when he disappears to the bathroom. She is almost asleep by then and unconscious fully when he returns and curls around her. She sleeps well like this, no nightmares, just a sinfully comfy bed and the blanket heat of her beast of a husband.

His body keeps her safe, but what of his heart? His soul and his mind? There are whispers in their shared magic, a longing in his eyes, the scent of fear and sadness. Hermione does not allow herself to ponder on it as she prepares to fight for her job.

It is the night before her tribunal. She has spent long hours since receiving the summons each day at her office while Draco stalks her home. He reads Muggle books and attempts to make real coffee and finds new ways to taunt Crookshanks, as well as the ever present aurors posted outside. She knows he lets in the house-elves to cook when she’s not there, but she never sees them and he serves her dinner as if he has made it himself.

It’s late and the food is cold when she returns. The flat is dark and she sees his large silhouette standing by the window.

“What time?” she asks. (She is keeping a mental record of the hours when his transformation occurs.)

“Barely after sundown.” She is used to his voice. It does not grate but passes through her as a rumbling vibration. “They almost saw me too.” He must be watching whoever stands guard on the street through the part of her curtains.

“Did you parade around naked again?”

She sees the reflection of the streetlights catch on his fangs. He must be smiling. “It’s what I always do.”

“Feed me,” she says, collapsing at the table. “I’ll deal with you later.”

“Did I neglect to tell you? Tonight’s menu is kneazle cassoulet.”

Crookshanks is winding round her ankles, seeking shelter. She caught Malfoy holding him up to his gigantic mouth just yesterday. He made no apologies, except to say he promised to cook the fleabag first.

Her hand reaches down and scratches behind an ear. “Sounds delicious,” she says as her familiar purrs.

“It was.”

Crookshanks hisses at the voice and darts into her lap. She lets Malfoy serve her a plate of stew (pork sausages and duck, as it turns out), ignoring the sounds of his wings catching on every surface. He is working on his coordination in the small space, on dulling his magic, on pretending to be quiet.

Clumsy oaf, she thinks, but doesn’t object when, eyes and body drooping in her seat, he scoops her up with one arm and carries her to bed.

He lies down beside her, taking off her shoes and unfastening her robes. “I want to come with you tomorrow,” he tells her.

“It’s not safe. You might change.”

“I want to protect you.”

“From who?”

“Everyone.”

“That’s sweet.” She’s yawning as she touches him. He lies her on his chest and she listens to his heartbeat, stroking his scaly skin and pressing light kisses to it. She sinks and rises with each respiration. The steady movement feels so soothing. “Stay like this,” she says, “just for a bit longer.”

“You’re taking advantage of me.”

She laughs, lets him comb his long claws through her hair. “S’nice.”

“Now you’re purring like the furball.”

“I can’t help it.”

“Kitten.” He’s taken to calling her that, claims it’s because she’s small and likes to scratch. “Sleep. I’ll be here in the morning.”

“Goodnight, Gargoyle.”

She has a name for him too. It relates to the curse. Narcissa had a book delivered from the Manor library about the seventh century legend of La Gargouille, a dragon-like beast who terrorized the French town of Rouen. Draco translated for her. (She had to resist the urge to touch herself as his expert tongue slipped between two languages, occasionally three for the bits in mostly latin, although that is something she understands herself). The beast would destroy villages and attack ships, only being placated by the offer of a human sacrifice; a virgin maiden was preferred.

It was a priest who killed him and burned the corpse. But being a fire-breathing dragon, the head and neck survived and were later nailed to the cross of the town’s new church.

“Violent Muggles,” Draco concluded.

“But it fits, my cursed dragon. My sweet Gargoyle.”

The Muggle legend is a fudge of the truth. There was no priest but a witch, rejected by Draco’s early ancestor Felix Malfoi. The reason? A lack of purity, though in terms of chastity or blood (or maybe even both), Hermione isn’t sure.

* * *

He’s playing music when she gets home the following day. _Dark Side of the Moon._ Her father’s record. She’s no idea how he worked out how. Music fills the space. He’s lying on the ground, demon now, eyes closed, wings spread as far as they will go in her tiny flat. Not far. Crookshanks sleeps atop one, tail flicking with the beat. She kneels down and strokes Crookshanks as Malfoy stirs.

“How’d it go?” he says.

“I lost. They won’t let me practice.”

“I’m sorry, Granger. What can I do?”

“Hold me.” She crawls on top of him. Large and impossibly strong arms close around her. She cries against him, falls asleep for a while. When she wakes, she’s lying on the sofa and he’s playing the Carpenters. “I love this one,” she says and cries again. _Superstar_ makes her tearful on the best of days but now she’s thinking of her parents and what she’s lost and how her husband makes her feel indescribably alone.

“Dance with me,” he says and pulls her up, off her feet. “Your Muggle songs are depressing,” he tells her as he twirls her around, her legs dangling. She laughs.

“What am I going to do?”

“Drink. Pass out. Start again tomorrow.”

“I’m stuck with you.”

“Yeah.”

“I’ve got no one else. No job. Friends who don’t trust me and watch outside my door. A public who hates me.”

“They hate me.”

“Same thing now.”

“What do you want from me, Granger?”

Her arms are around his neck, her head pillowed on his shoulder. She sighs. “I don’t love you yet. I like you less because I lost my job, which isn’t fair. But you did this. It’s your fault.”

He’s growling. “I’m trying.”

“Do you like me?”

“Not right now.”

They keep dancing anyway. _Close to You_ drives him close to insane and she thinks he scratches the record when he shuts it off.

“They belonged to my parents,” she tells him when he’s sat her on the counter and he’s called several house-elves over, no longer bothering with pretense but making sure that she’s fed. He pours her wine then firewhisky. He runs her a bath and removes all her clothes and it’s the first time that he’s seen her naked.

“What happened to them?” he asks her when she’s drowning in bubbles, his body contorted to somehow fit into the bathroom doorway.

“I erased their memories of me to protect them during the war. But now it’s too late to reverse and they don’t remember who I am. They live in Australia and think they never had a daughter. When I play their records, it reminds me of home, of being loved and safe.”

“I’m sorry.”

“What reminds you of home?”

“Voldemort sitting at our table feeding Muggles and blood-traitors to his snake.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes.”

“What about before then?”

“Fire. We’d always have a fire burning and Mother would rest her head on Father’s lap while he read.”

“Do you like your father?”

“He’s my father.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“He’s what I aspired to. And I guess he’s who I’ve become.”

“Have you really?”

“A secret monster.”

“Was he cruel?”

“He loves my mother.”

“Was he cruel to you?”

“He got things wrong. I don’t hate him, Granger. I think he was a misguided fool and we’ve all suffered for it. I’m mad he didn’t protect me and Mother. I wish he made me braver and stronger but he made me a coward. Spoiled me and failed me. But still, I wish he wasn’t in prison. I wish Mother wasn’t sad because she misses him. I wish he hadn’t given me this stupid curse.”

“You regret it all.”

“What?”

“All you did.”

“I apologized, didn’t I?”

“I don’t think that you’re your father, Draco.”

She stands up from the bath and calls a towel with her wand, casts a spell to dry and twist up her hair.

“I don’t think you’re a mudblood, Granger.”

“What a compliment.”

“You’re beautiful.”

She lets him paw her tits as she lies in bed, fingers carding through his hair, tugging on his pointed ears, pressing her pads to the tips of his fangs until she draws blood.

“I think you’re beautiful, too,” she tells him. “On the outside. On the inside, you’re confused.” She tells him this as she kisses his ridged brow and, when he’s human and desperate, eating her out like a starving man served up a nine-course meal, she reminds him, “I know you’re trying, Draco.” But it’s not enough. It can’t be enough, though she comes and she’s crying again.

How will it ever be enough?

* * *

The days after she has lost her job are the hardest. Hermione Granger cannot function without a compass and no map. She needs a cause and it hasn’t been Harry or the war for a long time and now she’s denied the means to make it what she wants, all the magical creatures, even her cursed husband.

She agrees to meet Narcissa for lunch. Draco no longer goes out but he sends and receives many owls, claiming he has to oversee the family business. “I have to placate the board.” Always the board, mysterious board and company that does who knows what.

“Go see my mother,” he orders and so she does out of a desperate boredom.

They meet in the same French place Draco took her to when they were wed. There is privacy and quiet. Narcissa looks well-rested and perfectly poised and made-up. Hermione is tired. She wears Muggle clothes. She refused the bath Draco drew the night before and her hair is tangled and she hasn’t eaten in even longer.

“What can we do about your job?” Narcissa says.

“We?”

“You’re family.”

“I’m a mess.”

“I can see that. How is Draco?”

A pain in the arse, she thinks. More monster than man. Trying to the point of destruction. “He’s great,” she says.

“Hmm.” Narcissa calls over the waiter and orders a bunch of dishes not on the menu. “This will keep you strong. You need to be strong for my son.”

“Why me? Why’s it suddenly my responsibility?”

“You’re his wife.”

“I’m his keeper. And his prisoner to boot.”

“Don’t be so melodramatic, Ms. Granger.”

“I appreciate you calling me that, though Hermione is fine.”

“Yes, well, I can accept some breaks in tradition. Though not all. Why have you not consummated your marriage?”

Hermione chokes on her water.

“Is my son not attractive? Does he not please you?” Narcissa says, hiding her displeasure at such poor manners while Hermione dabs a napkin to her face.

“This is all none of your business.”

“When it comes to maintaining his life, it most definitely is. I’m certainly more patient than Lucius. He’s still waiting for your visit.”

“I thought that was no longer necessary.”

“Not before. But this isn’t to relay a message. He would like to meet his daughter-in-law.”

* * *

She has nothing better to do than a visit to Azkaban. She doesn’t tell Draco where she is going. He sits amongst piles of scrolls, sending off more owls and ordering around house-elves. If this is how the rest of Malfoy Industries conducts business then Hermione doesn’t want to know. She doesn’t ask him either, though she does make comment on his reading glasses, transfigured to fit his gargoyle face.

“You look cute.”

He mutters something about the price of wolfsbane and can she clear out and what the hell’s for dinner. He’s in a good mood then, she thinks, still not very hungry herself and unnerved by yesterday’s lunch with his mother.

They parted with a hug initiated by Narcissa. “You’ll be good for him,” she said. “Lucius will see.”

Hermione feels no reassurance as she arrives outside the prison fortress. A masked auror apparates to meet her and disapparates them in. She’s discombobulated and nauseous as they take her wand and the rest of her things and go through a long checklist ticked off with black-feathered quill by a witch the size of a house-elf. Hermione rarely feels tall but the glare of the shorter woman is still enough to cow her.

“What is the nature of your relationship to Lucius Malfoy?”

“Daughter-in-law,” she says.

“Not related by blood?”

“I am family.”

She feels the judging stares of the many guards around her. More questions are asked and a lock of hair and a pinprick of blood are taken “for the records”, which translates to mean they’ll make her leave a pensieve of her visit when she’s done.

Once the tiny witch has completed her inquisition, a giant of an auror takes Hermione roughly by the elbow and through a maze of doors and stairs as confusing as an Escher drawing, all meant to disorientate should she be planning a prison break. She wants to laugh at the thought.

The final door is made of scarred wood with a small window formed by metal bars. The large wizard taps his wand against the wood three times and the door swings open.

“You got ten minutes,” he says and shoves her in.

She shudders as the door bangs shut behind her, blinking against bright lights. When she can see, she finds herself in a square and incongruously pristine white room with a single table and two chairs. Lucius Malfoy is chained to one of the seats.

“Mrs. Malfoy,” he says.

Her first thought is how much he looks like his son, despite the lost weight and increased lines to his face and receding hair that has thinned and hangs in greasy clumps. Merlin, please let Draco keep his hair, she silently prays, but she can see that there is still a handsome man lurking under the toils of incarceration, a proud and deceptively intimidating wizard. The Malfoy blood runs strong.

“It’s still Ms. Granger, but you can call me Hermione, Mr. Malfoy,” she responds.

He gives a small and frighteningly familiar smirk. “Please take a seat, Hermione.” There is no reciprocal offer to call him by his first name.

“Your wife said you wished to see me,” she says once she’s sat before him.

“I wanted to offer my thanks and condolences.”

“Which first?”

“I believe it is always preferable to dispense with the bad.” His fingers—long and elegant as Draco’s—steeple atop the table. “I was sorry to hear of the loss of your legal practice. The Ministry is cruel and vindictive.”

“Some would say it’s apt punishment for getting into bed with your family.” At the arch of a single blond eyebrow, she amends with a blush, “Figuratively I mean.”

“Ah, yes. And so to the thanks. You have saved my son.”

“Not yet.”

“But you shall.”

“How do you know?”

“It is in your bleeding heart nature. And if you don’t, I will find ways to act my vengeance from my prison cell.”

She should be scared by the threat but another thought hits her. “You love your son?”

“Did you expect any less?”

“Yes, I think I did. If I may speak frankly, your family is not what I’m used to.”

“Then you should get used to it.”

“Is that another threat?”

With the slightest of shrugs, he says, “Call it friendly advice.”

“And can you get used to a Muggle-born witch for a daughter? A half-blood for an heir?”

“Are you with child?”

“No!” She’s deeply disturbed by the interest Draco’s parents seem to take in his sex life, as much as she may understand the reasons for their concern. “But I can’t tolerate your prejudices,” she goes on. “I won’t expose any child I have to it.”

“Do you love my son, Ms. Granger?”

“No.”

“Then you must learn to.”

“But he doesn’t love me either.”

“Oh but he will.”

“How can you say that? Is it to do with the curse?”

“The curse does not create the bond of love, but love is a powerful thing, some would say stronger than magic.”

His words surprise her. Everything about this exchange has left her more lost than before. She knows less and less. There was no chastisement about her blood status as it seemed unimportant. Though the threats were expected, their motivation was not. Blood is thick with the Malfoys. Heavy in loyalty and protectiveness, tempered by all their history and sullied by their myriad mistakes. But it goes on and on and she will not be the one to break it, not if Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy have their way.

“I think I understand,” she says as the giant of an auror taps three more times on the door to announce that their ten minutes are up.

A strong hand wraps around her arm and she is dragged from the room, Lucius Malfoy’s parting words echoing down the corridor:

“Welcome to the family, Hermione.”

“What a creepy fucker,” the auror says.

* * *

“I got you a job.”

“I met with your father.”

“WHAT?!”

Their cries echo in unison, though Hermione’s voice is drowned out by the boom of her gargoyle spouse. Crookshanks leaps down from Draco’s shoulders at the noise. There are spots of ink embedded in the orange fur of his head, which Hermione later comes to learn is due to Draco rubbing behind his ears with a quill. She is unsure at what point a détente was called and relations thawed to the point of uneasy friendship, but she has bigger concerns right then.

“What do you mean you got me a job?”

Hands on her hips and intonation at her bossy and displeased best, this usually worked on Ron and Harry. Draco simply lifts her by the elbows and growls in her face. “You went to Azkaban?”

“Your mother asked me to.”

“It’s too dangerous.”

“Says who? You’ve never been!”

“I don’t want to! And I don’t want you to go either.”

“Well go conjure a time-turner or accept what’s in the past. It’s done. We spoke. He only threatened me twice.”

“You caught him on a good day then.”

“I think he’s happy for us. Or he’s just glad you’re not dead. He really cares about you, Draco.”

Draco emits a monstrously loud snort and drops her to her feet.

“Hey!” She smacks at his chest then goes back to her hands-on-hips position. “So what about this job?”

“Do you care?”

“Is that what you’ve been doing?”

“I’ve made a new department for magical creature relations.”

Hermione’s arms go limp. Her mouth drops.

“I can dismantle it, okay? It’s barely real, just an idea I had to argue with the board over. Since our potions have expanded into wolfsbane and we have so few contacts with werewolves anyway and this is your thing. It doesn’t matter, it was a stupid idea. The board all hated it but I—hey!”

She’s launched herself at him and he catches her on instinct, arms holding her gently as she clings to him, pressing kisses to his face. “That’s the sweetest thing someone’s ever done for me,” she says.

“Well, I am your sweet Gargoyle.”

“Thank you, Draco.”

She feels the rush of magic and he’s changing, her body lowering as he grows smaller. Still he doesn’t let her go and her arms and legs stay wrapped around him.

“That worked quickly,” he observes but she’s too busy hugging him, enjoying the feel of his warm flesh and his delicious scent.

“You earned it.”

“I did?”

There’s a knock at the door. “Perfect timing,” Hermione groans but he won’t put her down as he goes to answer. “Draco, wait!”

She’s still hanging from his shoulders and one arm is tight about her waist as he opens the door with the other. “Auror Weasley, always a pleasure.”

Ron and his shift partner demand to enter and want the full story. There are scheduled visits every few days but the racket of their argument must have triggered this impromptu call. It’s been getting harder and harder to make sure Draco is at least human, if not always presentable, when they come. Though his clothes are torn and he’s shirtless, he puts it all down to the ardor of his wife. “She’s a wild kitten,” he says, tugging on her hair and smiling with genuine glee at Ron’s discomfort.

“Be more careful,” Ron grumbles, studying Hermione for a long while as Draco pulls her close.

“You heard Auror Weasley, learn to control yourself, Granger.”

She discreetly stamps on his foot and he holds in his scream until Ron and the other auror are gone.

“Jerk!” she yells as he calls her a bitch and tosses her over his shoulder, limping back to their bedroom where he gives her an extremely detailed breakdown of all that her new job will entail.

* * *

She hates it.

That isn’t true.

There’s so much potential and possibilities; even if she can’t act as a lawyer, she can advocate and find other lawyers who can. She understands the Ministry enough to guide different creatures through various loopholes. She can lobby for changes in the law. She can order the manufacture of potions and other items that will better conditions for some. She can help find employment. She can even put in bids for tracts of land that will protect wolf packs and mer colonies and centaur forests and unicorn reserves. She has money and, more importantly, real political power at her fingertips. She has never felt anything like it before.

And it’s all down to Draco.

He sets up a floo network between her flat and her new office and sneaks in for lunch every day, even if he’s in demon form. They sit and go over her proposals, sometimes with her curled on his lap while he feeds her. It’s so intimate and strange between them. She wants him near. She wants to hear all his thoughts. She wants him to take care of her like he seems so wont to do, since she’s always been the sort of person doing the caring. Maybe this marriage will work. Maybe this is what it’s supposed to be.

They still argue and he hates when she takes a cause too far, like wanting to go meet an unregistered werewolf pack in person or suggesting some centaurs stage a sit-in until they get a fair hearing at the Ministry.

“It’s like you enjoy being in danger.”

“I do not. But I’m not afraid to take risks.”

“Same thing.”

“What can you do to stop me?”

Sometimes his hand drifts up her skirt or he tears her shirt right open and toys with her breasts until she’s pliant and helpless in his arms. Sometimes he punches the wall. Sometimes he simply begs. She learns how he worries and it’s beginning to mean the world to her.

“I promise I’ll be careful, Draco.”

“Not careful enough.” But he relinquishes eventually (after he’s made her come and repaired her clothes or the crack in the wall or accepted the reassurance of her kisses) and leaves her to the rest of her day.

She really tries to be careful.

The press still express interest in their marriage. She holds one official interview at the start of her job to promote the new department. But all anyone wants to know is the most private details that she won’t and can’t share. Some things are secret between them, not just to protect Draco and the truth of his curse, but because they are theirs and no one else can understand and she doesn’t want them to. She wants to keep this hidden truth of a fragile marriage between them, the rickety little house they have built of misunderstandings and good intentions and all that constant erring and learning. Every bit counts, every single crumbling and ill-formed brick. And it’s solely theirs.

But she’s still called a traitor and a frigid virgin and a slut. Malfoy is a monster who can never be trusted and should be forever locked away. People voice these views in public. Harry tries to speak out in support of her but even the good word of the Chosen One is not enough. Brightest Witch of her Age and the Wizarding World’s greatest disappointment. Their marriage isolates them. She wishes they were an island but that’s not really her; she’s never been one to hide away.

So she isn’t afraid when she takes this particular meeting. An anti-werewolf group who she has crossed paths with before; they have strong contacts on the Wizengamot and have lobbied hard to block the laws she has supported. She does not believe this is an olive branch but she does not see the benefit in denying them their say. Perhaps she can persuade them and isn’t it better to know and understand your enemy? Sun Tzu would have been a Slytherin, she is sure. And she will not succumb to blind prejudice like so many others. Isn’t that what started two wars?

They agree on neutral ground and meet at her old law office, which has been cleared out since she lost the right to her legal practice. The appointment is in her diary and her secretary is aware. But she keeps this one from Draco, unable and unwilling to deal with his overreaction. She will tell him when she is done.

The delegation consists of three men she has never met before. They shake her hand and accept the transfigured chairs and tea service she retrieves from her bottomless bag. The introductions are polite and perfunctory. The order of business nothing she has not prepared for. They are concerned by the new line of wolfsbane potion being produced by Malfoy Industries in an agreement with the Ministry. How will the unofficial rules be applied? What is the nature of the proposed law?

She’s in her element. She’s too at ease. Then the questions starkly change.

“What about your husband, Ms. Granger?” the oldest man says. He is tall with a thick black beard and beady pale blue eyes that seem never to blink as they stare at her.

“What about him?”

“Why isn’t he here?”

“I’m in charge of this department. I don’t require his presence—”

“But he would let you meet us alone and leave you so vulnerable?”

“Vulnerable?” Alarms sound in her head. Her gut instinct screams _Danger!_ but it’s too late. _Too late!_

“Has he mated you, Ms. Granger?”

She reaches for her wand but the bearded wizard snatches it first with a wordless _Accio_. The two other wizards are out of their chairs and have hold of her arms. They are not as tall as their leader but make up for it in brute strength. She can only struggle futilely as they twist her wrists and drag her onto the table.

“What are you doing? Let me go! Let me go!”

They silence her first then bind her limbs with more wordless spells. She lies muted and squirming, eyes wide in fear as the wizards look down on her.

“Werewolves are no longer what we fear,” the oldest wizard says. “Your husband is a monster, an abomination, and yet you gave yourself freely to him. So why has he not been seen in public since? You have not broken the curse, which leads us to believe you remain untouched.”

One wizened hand drags along her leg, from shin to knee and under the hem of her skirt. Tears fill her eyes. She wants to scream. She wants to scream for Draco.

“If you are no longer a virgin, would it kill him, Miss Granger?” The hand grips her thigh unkindly. “Is that the only way to stop him?”

Eyes squeezed shut, she hears the beginnings of a spell to remove her clothes. It is never finished. There is a loud rumbling and the sound of the door blowing open and then she hears her name and the words:

“I’ll fucking kill you all.”

Draco’s voice is low and certain. He stands in the smoking remains of the doorway, perfectly human but entirely drenched in murder. His wand sparks in his hand, green and ready for the first Unspeakable to be cast. The three wizards fire hexes at him. He blocks two but one lands, slicing open his chest. Blood pours from the wound but there is more in his eyes, glowing brighter as he bares his teeth and emits a terrible howl.

The windows shatter. Hermione feels the magic inside her reach out to him as the transformation starts. She is released from her bindings and her voice sings free, calling his name, calling her wand to her hand, the first wandless and wordless incantation she has ever achieved.

“Draco!”

She aims at the three wizards as she ducks under the table. Draco is screaming louder than she has ever heard, his wings spreading and breaking through the ceiling, sending wood and plaster down.

“Draco, stop! I’m okay!”

Then she hears it. _Con-FRING-go!_ She is thrown, along with the table, by the force of the explosion, colliding with a wall. Her ears ring. Her vision is blurring. The room is filled with smoke and dust. And through it all steps out Draco, the tall older wizard raised in one large hand, claws ripping through his throat. Blood pours like struck oil and the body is thrown with enough force to break through the outer wall and fall into open air below. The remaining two wizards crawl forward and there are more voices from outside, footsteps on the stairs and pounding in the corridors. Aurors are entering the building, she is sure. We have to get out of here, she thinks. But the wizards are firing new hexes at Draco and at her.

“Hermione!”

He hovers over her, wings curved protectively around her like the first time she met this version of him. He is covered in blood and glowing with magic, a terrifying monster, the most beautiful creature she’s ever laid eyes on. He gathers her up in his arms and turns towards their assailants.

“Close your eyes,” he whispers and she does and there is heat and fire and burning and the loudest sound she’s ever heard. Then air and coldness and the great heavy flap of enormous wings.

She looks for a brief moment and the world is upside down and far below and Draco must be above her, she supposes, but then she closes her eyes once more and opts for oblivion instead.

* * *

She can smell the sea. This is her first thought. Seagulls holler in cacophonous melody and she can feel a warm breeze on her face that must be bringing in the salted air. She is covered in a soft sheet and lying on an even softer bed. Her head is sunk into thick pillows. She snuggles deeper and then opens her eyes, sitting up suddenly to survey her surroundings.

She is in a white room, not the sterile space in which she had met Lucius, but a wood-panelled structure from floor to ceiling, with every surface painted the same. A large window is open before her with thin drapes billowing inwards to reveal a bay of sparkling blue sea. She rests on a large canopy bed dressed in the same virginal aesthetic. And to her left, huddled against the wall by the bed is a monster.

Her monster.

“Draco.”

He blinks at her, red eyes unseeing, hair singed and blackened with soot. He smells of fire. His skin is crusted with dried blood. She holds her arms out to him.

“Draco,” she says again.

He rises, the tips of his wings catching the rafters on the ceiling. And he gathers her up.

“You’re okay?”

She cries as he holds her, body sinking back down to the floor, clawed hands stroking her hair and her face, wiping her tears away.

“What happened?” she whispers. “How did you…?” With a hiccup, she finally manages, “How did you know to come for me?”

“I had you followed.” She starts to scream but he covers her mouth with one finger. “Let me finish, witch. Lacey was keeping an eye on you. I know you’re going to kill me for this but I can’t stand being trapped in that flat every day, never knowing if you’re safe. She saw you go to your meeting and as soon as they had your wand, she apparated to me and brought me there. As for the rest…”

She tugs on his hand until he lets her speak. “Did you kill them?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“With fire.”

“You breathed fire.”

“Yes.”

“Fucking dragon.”

She rests her head against his chest and lets him hold her before she’s asleep again. She wakes in bed alone. The sun is still shining outside but lies low with an orange light casting the room in phantom flames. She thinks of her dragon husband. Gargoyle monster. Holy hell. And stalker. He is right; she will kill him for that. And she thinks that this means there is no bond; he’s just a possessive crazy asshole and, lucky for her, his possessive crazy asshole-ness saved her life.

But where is she?

He left her in her work clothes, minus shoes and with several tears in the fabric and smoke marks too. She checks for injuries and finds most of her cuts and bruises have been healed. There are faded finger marks on her inner thigh and she begins to shake at the realization of what was almost done.

“Draco!”

She shouts for him. Mad as she is, she doesn’t want to be alone right now.

Instead of her seven foot husband, a house-elf appears. “Buena sera, Donna Hermione. I am Gio. Don Draco asked me to fetch you for dinner.”

“You’re Italian?”

“Yes. You are in Italy.”

“I see.”

She follows the elf down winding stairs that lead to a narrow rustic kitchen and out onto a terrace. Hermione gasps at the view. A beautiful bay she had only caught glimpses of before now spreads out before her, the ragged cliff edges rich in trees and the bright blue water dotted by small bobbing yachts moored before rows of colorful houses.

Portofino, she thinks.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t bring you here under better circumstances.”

She turns to find Draco standing at the terrace edge looking out at the water. He has a glass of white wine cradled in his hand, which he downs too fast, liquid dripping from his fangs.

“I’m so fucking mad at you,” she says.

“I was waiting for that.” Gio appears with a pop and refills his glass before offering one to her. Hermione accepts. “You’re fucking welcome, too,” Draco says.

“Let’s not argue.”

“Wonderful idea.”

“I’m saving up hours, probably days for a proper argument about how far out of line you were, but for now I want you to make me feel safe.” She sips her wine and finds it cold and delightful. She takes a larger gulp and says in a small voice, “I was so scared.”

He tosses his glass to the side, letting it smash on the ground, as he slowly stalks towards her. “I will always keep you safe. I’m sorry for how everything turned out.”

“Me too.”

She lets him wrap her in his arms and his wings. “Are you hungry?” he asks her, face nuzzling her hair.

“Starving.”

“Gio’s an even better cook than Pob. Although he only knows the local fare. I hope you like fish.”

“I love it.”

They sit at a small iron table drinking their wine and watching the sky change as the sun fully sets. Gio brings soup and pasta and stew and it is perfect and delicious and Hermione entirely understands why Draco would imagine his honeymoon here.

“How can you be outside?” she asks. “Don’t you worry you might be seen?”

“This house is protected by old family wards. No one can see us, not even wizarding folk.”

“They’ll be looking for us, Draco.”

“I know. I just wanted to take you far away so you could recover. At least for a few days. It doesn’t matter—”

“What?”

“Whatever happens to me, I’ll make sure you’re taken care of, okay?”

At such words, she finds herself in his lap once again, touching his face and kissing his chest and willing the universe to give them this little island of peace and calm before it’s hit by an apocalyptic storm.

“I know I said I was mad, but thank you for saving me.”

She can feel him starting to change beneath her.

“I’d kill them again,” he says. “And again and again. Anyone that would dare to harm you.”

“They’ll put you in prison.”

“I don’t care.”

Human and beautiful once more, he stands them from their seat and leads her back to the bedroom and onto the bed.

“Make love to me,” she says as he lies down beside her.

“Don’t be daft. You’ve had too much wine. I’m not doing anything to you until you tell me you’re okay.”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Would you like a bath?”

“Is that your answer for everything?”

“For Circe’s sake, I’m trying here, you impossible witch. I won’t even start to explain what hearing you say ‘make love to me’ has done.”

“You won’t be joining me in the bath then?”

He throws a pillow at her head before disappearing to the bathroom.

She’s half-asleep by the time she’s clean and changed, wearing nothing but one of his white shirts. He’s lying behind her, arms keeping her close enough that she can feel him blowing her hair out of his face.

“You’re going to kill me in the night with this mane,” he mumbles, sounding as sleepy as she feels.

“Before you die, can I tell you something?”

He sighs. “If you must.” He winces when she elbows him. She saw the pink mark on his chest before, where the slicing hex had hit; another scar to add to the many of the _Sectumsempra_ curse. “Get on with it then.” At least he heals fast.

“I shouldn’t keep saying I don’t love you. I think it’s a lie. I think it’s always been. Ever since this started between us, I’ve felt something for you. A lot of it negative, yes, but always something and always strongly. The truth is I’m glad we got married. I’m glad I have you in my life. And, even though lots of what you do is outrageously wrong and drives me mad and you’ve turned my whole life upside down, I don’t think that I could imagine it without you.”

She lies in the silence and waits for him to respond. In this dark there are few answers except for the quickening of his heartbeat and the increased tension in his arms.

“Draco?”

“Quite the romantic, aren’t you, Granger?”

“Oh my god—”

“Shut up! I love you too, okay. Now go to sleep.”

Somehow she does.

* * *

His hands are cradling her face and he’s staring down at her when she awakens. “I meant what I said.” He kisses her once. “They’re trying to break down the wards. Don’t know how they found us so fast. Bloody Potter.” He kisses her again. “But I mean it, Granger. Every damn word.”

“Say my name.”

A kiss to one cheek. “Bloody Granger.” And to the other. “Hermione, okay?” One quickly to her forehead. “Hermione Malfoy.” He picks up her left hand and thumbs the ring then presses his mouth to her knuckles. “Violent kitten,” he says with a smile, leaning down until his lips meet hers, this kiss long and soft and heartbreakingly final.

“My wife.”

And then he is gone.

Before she can follow, Gio pops by her side and apparates her out to where around two dozen aurors are waiting, with Harry leading the charge. He grabs her as she struggles and screams for Draco, dragging her to back of the crowd. But she can still see him step out the front door, still human and scarred and so fucking vulnerable. His arms are held wide and how she wants to run into them but Harry won’t let her, whispering that it’ll be okay, that she’s safe when she’s not, not without him, not without her husband. How can they make her watch?

At least twenty stunners hit him before he finally goes down. He is restrained in the goblin-made shackles and apparated away while she is taken to St. Mungo’s, determinedly mute and defiant.

Harry and Ron pace around her bed, the healers having completed an assessment and deemed her well enough for visitors, despite her never uttering a word.

“Say something, ‘Mione, please,” Ron says. “What did he do to you?”

Harry tries a more diplomatic approach. “If you tell us, we can help him. He’s not saying anything too, just wants to know that you’re safe.”

“Does he have a lawyer?” Hermione says with cracked lips that still vibrate from his kiss. They are her first words in six hours.

“No—” Ron begins until Harry glares at him.

“No? You cruel, incompetent bastards! I bet you wanted to arrest him as soon as I could no longer practice. What took you so long? Did it take me almost being raped to stir you into action?”

“He tried to—?!”

“No, Ronald! Bloody no! Never! If it wasn’t for him, those men would’ve hurt me. He killed them to protect me. It was in my defense. He’s not a monster; he’s my husband. And if I can’t see him then he’ll die and I’ll never speak to either of you again, do you understand? This is on your heads, all of it!”

She folds her arms and sits back. “You better go. I feel tired. The healers said I need rest.”

“We’ll be back in the morning,” Harry promises, looking like a scolded dog with its tail between its legs.

Ron looks even more regretful. “I’m sorry, ‘Mione. We just want to make sure you’re okay.”

She won’t see them the next day or the day after that. She’s declared fit and well and free to go home. There are no charges against her. Just a lot of questions and confusion and incomprehension from her supposed best friends.

She takes the hospital floo back to her flat. There are press outside and an auror protection detail. She shuts all the curtains and wards all the windows and doors, finds Crookshanks grumpy and unsettled but somehow fed and with water. Bloody elves. The place is spotless and there are prepared meals left in the fridge. She grabs her cat and sits on the sofa. “I know you miss him, too, boy,” she says.

She calls for Lacey and thanks her for getting Draco in time to save her. She holds back on asking just how much she trailed her the rest of the time. The poor elf is tearful enough at what is going to happen to her master. Soon Hermione, Crookshanks and Lacey are sitting huddled together, wondering what will become of them all.

Eventually she has to call for another elf to bring her the last three days’ papers. The one after the day of her attack bears a vivid front page image. A ball of fire can be seen destroying two walls of her office building then Draco emerges from the smoke with her unconscious body in his arms and disappears into the sky. It looks like a violent kidnapping rather than what actually occurred and that’s exactly how the press frame it. The one following his arrest proclaims the aurors’ success in her daring rescue, the former Golden Girl no longer public enemy but now innocent victim of a dangerous brute. And today’s edition talks of his indefinite imprisonment as he awaits trial for murder. The Wizengamot refuse to set a date, claiming all of the facts must be gathered first.

But Hermione suspects that their motives are far worse.

Because it’s less than eight weeks until Draco’s twenty-fifth birthday.

* * *

That’s less than eight weeks to come up with an infallible plan.

Hermione has all the parts in place by six.

There’s still no date for a trial but a preliminary hearing is due to take place in three days and there’s no time like the present. She gives Lacey polyjuice to take her place and wait in the apartment. Every few hours she’s been instructed to glance out the window so the aurors will see and perhaps a reporter will take her photo. Hermione has already spent the last few days glancing out every now and then so her behavior won’t seem unusual. Then she waits for Harry. He arrives via floo from Grimmauld Place with the requested package in hand.

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

She bites her tongue and even refrains from rolling her eyes, much like she did at the start of all this. Harry is understandably nervous and she has asked for so much from him, she’s not sure that she can ever repay him.

“I have to see Draco,” is all she says and she puts on the invisibility cloak.

Harry apparates them both to the Ministry then goes down to the holding cells to wait for the evening change of shift. There are even more aurors on duty outside than before and Harry has told her they have had Unspeakables creating new and supposedly impenetrable wards. She watches as people greet Harry, exchanging casual words. The outer door opens and the day shift emerges. The freak has caused them no trouble tonight, they say and wish Harry and his colleagues a quiet night. Hermione hopes for one as well, trailing behind Harry, who makes sure to hold the rear and close the outer door behind them. The lights flick on and off as the locks slip back into place and the wards reset. One of the aurors carries a tray of food and water. Another stoops to open up a panel at the base of the inner door with their wand but Harry stops them.

“Can I? Need to clarify a couple of things before the hearing.”

“Be my guest,” the guard says. “You’ll be okay?”

Harry grins. “Voldemort, remember? This is a pussycat next to him.”

Arrogant prick, Hermione thinks but thanks Merlin for it. Where would she be without the Boy Who Lived?

Harry takes the tray as the inner door opens. The rest of the team move back and Hermione edges along the walls and into darkness.

“Dinner time, Malfoy,” Harry calls, placing the tray down. The door shuts behind them and the overhead light comes on. “You in a talkative mood?”

“Get bent, Potter.” The voice booms from a hidden corner, still as strange and terrible as she remembers, but her heart races with a different kind of excitement now.

“Still trying to sweet-talk me?” Harry says.

“Get out before I eat you!”

“Fine, but we need to have words at some point.” He bangs on the door and is let back out until the room is plunged into darkness once more.

Hermione can hear a metallic shuffling like chains being dragged. “I’ve got some words for you, fuck-face,” the voice mutters and Hermione has to cover her mouth before she laughs.  
  
The shuffling stops. “Who’s there? Potter?”

She can’t breathe.

“I smell something.” A large hand reaches out and grabs the tray of food. It’s followed by a loud sniff. “Merlin!” The tray goes flying and smashes against the now locked door.

Hermione keeps surreptitiously moving, palms pressed to the cold, damp stone. Cloaked in shadow and invisibility, she prays she’s not noticed until she can reach him properly. Unfortunately, her foot catches on a heavy chain and she hisses.

Shit.

She hears him move before she can feel him, but she’s too close to escape. Those large familiar hands grab her and pull her close. She’s crushed to his chest as he breathes her in.

“I think I’ve lost it.”

“Quiet, Draco.”

He goes perfectly still and she can move enough to pull out her wand and cast the strongest silencing spell she knows. She adds several disillusionment charms for good measure.

“Let me see you,” he begs.

She pulls off the cloak and he’s lifted her to his face. “What the fuck are you doing? Is Potter in on this?”

“Saving your life, you ungrateful fool.”

And then she’s kissing him and touching every part she can reach. She can’t stop and the magic flows, stronger than it ever did, more heady than that first time that they touched. They’re both sinking to the ground and she’s lying on top of a sleeping angel, pale and too thin; he’s lost weight. Well, if he treats every meal in the same way… Merlin, she has to get him out of here.

“Draco?”

Her eyes have barely adjusted to the darkness but she can see when he wakes and he looks at her with that beautiful pair of grays. “Hey.” She strokes his cheek. “I had to see you.”

“You’re without doubt the most insane witch I have ever met.” He drags her down to him and kisses her fully. “Fucking brilliant bossy insane genius witch.” It’s like their wedding day kiss but better. Like every kiss they’ve ever shared but a million times greater, greater than any kiss ever. And she’s kissing him back and she’s taking off her robes. “What are you doing?”

Her hands trace his throat down to his chest and pinch his nipples. She grinds down against him as he hisses. “Making love to you,” she says. “I’m not asking this time.”

“I’m not going to stop you.”

He’s hard beneath her. She can feel him as he grabs her hips and guides her down, hands stroking her thighs and disappearing under her skirt.

“Fuck me,” he says when his fingers meet bare flesh.

“I didn’t want to waste time.”

“So don’t.”

There are shackles around his wrists and ankles, making it hard to move, making their movements noisy, but he won’t be deterred. There’s a frightening degree of strength that he holds, even in this weakened state, especially with their magic so close that she can feel it purring together. He lifts her up as she unfastens his pants and gets her first feel of him. Her small hand struggles to wrap around him, dragging up the smooth hot length as he curses and begs.

“You sure you’re ready?” His fingers reach between her legs to find her practically dripping. “What were you thinking about?”

“You, you bloody idiot.”

“Keep talking dirty to me, Granger.”

“Prat.”

“My virgin slut kitten.” And he lines her up with his length. “Tell me it was worth the wait.”

“Not if you make me wait any longer.”

He guides himself in slow and fast.

“Ah!”

“That’s it. Fuck. You feel amazing. You okay?”

She can barely talk. There’s a pain and a fullness and a building inside her. Her magic is singing with his, screaming, growing desperate. Move, she thinks and he somehow hears her. Her hands fall to his chest as he lifts her by the ass, guiding her up and down, moving his own body beneath her. The friction is too much, too good.

“You can touch yourself,” he says and she does as he keeps her going. Her fingers roll over her clit and her first orgasm breaks, pulsing around him, sucking him further in as her whole body melts against his.

“Good girl, darling girl. Fuck, love, you are made for me.” Words are tumbling from his mouth, fast and incoherent as his building movements. “Mine. Can you feel it? Hermione, my Hermione.” The tension is growing again, somehow faster and greater than before. How can she survive this? “I’m nearly there, I’m nearly—hold on.”

“Oh my god, Draco.”

“Say it, keep saying it.”

“Draco—”

“Hermione, fucking fuck.”

His fingers are gripping her hips so hard, she thinks they might pierce her flesh, penetrate inside her like the rest of him and she wants him to. There’s no end and no beginning, just the building and the breaking and she’s falling down and coming apart and exploding, lights behind her eyes, magic flowing from her hair to her toes.

Draco makes an inhuman sound but it’s nothing like the demon, more an animal, wild and newly set free. His hips hold flush with hers and she’s filled by liquid heat. It seems to never stop and she’s all liquid too, a mass of flesh atop him.

“Holy fuck,” he keeps whispering, “holy fuck,” his hands entwined in her hair until he has her face raised to look at him. “Holy fuck, you incredible demon.”

“I thought that was you.”

“You’re a beast. I fucking love you.” And he kisses her. Sweet and hot with salt and need.

She lies with him there, slowly kissing, languidly feeling the flesh of the other. He’s still inside her and she wants to keep him there but she has a mission too and time is an ever-changing creature, not like this constance and eternity that seems to exist between them now.  
  
“I love you too,” she tells him and reaches for her wand. She can _Accio_ without it now and so it comes to her as she stares down at him. “Do you trust me, Draco?”

“With my life. It belongs to you.”

“And mine to you.” She kisses him like he did to her in their bed in Portofino. “I mean it, every word,” she says and her wand hovers by his face. “I’ll see you soon, my love.”

“What are you doing? Granger—!”

“ _Obliviate._ ”

* * *

Hermione takes her seat beside Narcissa for Draco’s hearing. No press or general public are permitted in the council chambers, only those immediately involved and an excessive number of aurors. After all have risen and the Chief Warlock announces that court is in session, Draco is brought in, still in his goblin-made shackles but wearing dress robes at least. He looks better than she’s ever seen him, taller maybe. What is going on with his height and his weight? Why is he still growing?

Narcissa grabs Hermione’s hand and whispers, “What did you do to him?”

“I—”

“He looks wonderful,” she beams.

The ten guards surrounding Draco chain him to the stand. The Chief Warlock and the rest of the Wizengamot all stare oddly at Draco, seemingly confused.

“Ah—” the Chief Warlock begins then stops. “Draco Lucius Malfoy, you are charged with three counts of murder, kidnapping, destruction of property, attempted assault of law enforcement officials while resisting arrest, and numerous violations of the terms of your probation. This hearing is to establish the basic facts of the charges made against you and plan for an appropriate trial date. Do you understand?”

“Yes, your Honor.”

The hearing begins. A prosecution lawyer goes through the charges and the barest details of—what is to Hermione, at least—the Ministry’s flimsy case. Hermione bristles in her seat. Her husband has no lawyer, no representation to ensure that he is treated fairly. As the prosecution rests, she stands. “If I may, your Honor?”

Murmurs ripple through the court. She sees Ron gawp wide-eyed and Harry uncomfortably fiddle with his glasses. Draco only glances at her with the slightest of smirks.

“If you may what, Ms. Granger?” the Chief Warlock says.

“I wish to make my statement as part of the evidence-gathering process. Due to the effects of my ordeal, I have not been able to until now. But if it would please the court?”

“Very well.”

Hermione takes the witness stand. She takes an oath. A brief discussion occurs over whether there is a need for veritaserum but in the interests of time and so as not to distress the supposed victim further, it is decided against. When the court is ready, the Chief Warlock asks Hermione to recount for the record the events of that fateful couple of days.

And so she enacts the final part of her plan:

“Your Honor, on the day in question I was lured under false pretenses by supposed members of an anti-werewolf lobbying group. What started as a discussion over the planned production of wolfsbane by Malfoy Industries quickly turned into inappropriate questions as to the nature of the relationship between me and my husband. I had my wand taken and was restrained with threats made of an inherently sexual nature. Before anything too awful could occur, Draco Malfoy arrived and began dueling with my three assailants. I managed to break free and retrieve my wand in all the chaos. And then…” Hermione lowers her eyes. “I am not proud to say this but I cast what would turn out to be lethal curses. I was only trying to protect my husband and myself. I thought I could control the _Fiendfyre_ but it took over the room and blew out the walls. It was only due to Draco changing into his creature form that he was able to save me. I think he panicked because I was hurt and flew me away to somewhere I would be safe. I woke up in his house in Portofino, healed and cared for. I was scared over what might have happened and asked that we stay there until I felt better. But after only one day, the aurors arrived and took Draco away. I was too distressed to even speak to anyone. Not until now. Your Honor,” Hermione stands, “Draco did nothing wrong. And you can see for yourself, he is in total control of his curse. There is no threat from his magic. Our marriage was consummated early on to ensure it. This is all my fault. Charge me if you wish but please let my husband go.”

* * *

“I’m going to kill you.”

These are Draco’s first words once he is released and they are home and she explains everything as he paces and curses and narrowly avoids kicking Crookshanks, who is only trying to rub against Draco’s legs.

Stupid cat. Insufferable husband.

How she loves them both.

“If you would just calm down—”

“Calm down?”

The court had decided the only way to verify Hermione’s statement was to question Draco under veritaserum. So they did. Everything he recalled matched exactly with her version of events. She had made it so via a more sophisticated and undetectable version of the spell she had used on her parents. It had taken most of her weeks of planning to get right. But it is one of the best pieces of spell-work she has ever done.

“You didn’t let me finish.” She rises from the sofa and moves to stand before him. She barely reaches the top of his chest now. Since they consummated their marriage and seemingly broke the curse, he has taken on new physical characteristics, being taller and stronger than ever, as if some of the beast still lingers within.

She pushes up on her tiptoes and holds her wand to his head. “I made sure it was reversible, my sweet impatient Gargoyle,” she whispers and says the words and performs the movements that will give him back everything that was forgotten.

His eyes go wide and blank for a moment and then he is blinking down at her. “I still want to kill you,” he says, “but after I fuck you through the mattress.” He picks her up by the waist, her arms and legs wrapping around him as he carries her to their bedroom. “How dare you try and make me forget what an epic fucking shag you are.”

“You had me stalked by a house-elf,” she says in between kissing his face and removing his shirt.

“Understandable.” His voice is partly muffled by her breasts. “You needed rescuing five minutes later.”

“Officially I handled it myself.”

“You’re a psycho,” he says, vanishing their remaining clothes away.

“So are you.”

“I guess we’re made for each other,” and he does exactly what he set out to do.

Her husband—Draco Malfoy—is a man of his word, after all.

And his wife—Hermione Granger-Malfoy—is also a woman of hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for this chapter: There is one scene involving the threat of rape by OCs towards Hermione, but there is nothing beyond that. Let me know if you think the warning needs adjusting.


End file.
